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Title: The Young Wireless Operator—Afloat

Author: Lewis E. Theiss

Release date: October 31, 2017 [eBook #55864]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Craig W. Kirkwood and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG WIRELESS OPERATOR—AFLOAT ***




Produced by Craig W. Kirkwood and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive.)






Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics.

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Young Wireless Operator--Afloat

       *       *       *       *       *

_Books by Lewis E. Theiss_

_In Camp at Fort Brady_

  A CAMPING STORY. 304 Pages.

_His Big Brother_

  A STORY OF THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPHS OF A LITTLE SON OF LIBERTY. 320
  Pages.

_Lumberjack Bob_

  A TALE OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 320 Pages.

_The Wireless Patrol at Camp Brady_

  A STORY OF HOW THE BOY CAMPERS, THROUGH THEIR KNOWLEDGE OF WIRELESS,
  “DID THEIR BIT.” 320 Pages.

_The Secret Wireless_

  A STORY OF THE CAMP BRADY PATROL. 320 Pages.

_The Hidden Aerial_

  THE SPY LINE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 332 Pages.

  _Cloth Bound--Colored Frontispiece
  Price, $1.75 net each_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]




The Young Wireless Operator--Afloat


  or _HOW ROY MERCER WON HIS SPURS IN THE MERCHANT MARINE_

  By LEWIS E. THEISS

  _Illustrated by Original Photographs_

  [Illustration]

  W. A. WILDE COMPANY
  BOSTON CHICAGO

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Copyrighted, 1920_,
  BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY
  _All rights reserved_

  THE YOUNG WIRELESS OPERATOR--AFLOAT




Dedication


To few of us is it given to know where our arrows come to earth or what
shore is washed by the ripples we create in the sea of life. But so
much is certain: somewhere our arrows _do_ come to earth, and somewhere
the waves we set in motion _do_ wash the beach. And each arrow shot
from our bows and each wavelet we set in motion is fraught with unseen
possibilities for good or evil. Whether we be man or child or growing
youth, we cannot escape the responsibilities entailed; and, if we do
with our might what our hands find to do, our arrows and our ripples in
Time’s sea can cause only good.

In His wise providence the Almighty has so ordained that the faith and
enthusiasm of youth are often more effective than the coldly reasoned
acts of maturity. If so be that many lads shall read this and companion
stories of the wireless and find therein either pleasure or profit,
they will owe their gain to the fact that a youth who has passed to
the great beyond shot his arrow into the air with all the courage and
enthusiasm that a high soul and a brave heart could command. To that
youth,

  Nelson Kimball Wilde

whose boyish enthusiasm for radio communication first interested the
writer in wireless telegraphy, this book is affectionately dedicated.




Foreword


To-day the American Merchant Marine commands the respect of the world,
for in increasing numbers vessels flying the Stars and Stripes are seen
on every sea.

That our boys may know more about the many experiences which such
vessels encounter and to tell the story of how Roy Mercer made good as
a wireless operator upon one of these vessels, is the purpose of the
author in penning this story of life on the high sea.




Contents


      I. THE NEW WIRELESS MAN              11

     II. THE SECRET OF SUCCESS             24

    III. ROY’S FIRST FIRE                  34

     IV. IN LOWER NEW YORK                 50

      V. A FRIEND IN NEED                  69

     VI. OFF TO SEA                        81

    VII. THE NIGHT’S WORK                  94

   VIII. WHERE COTTON IS KING             107

     IX. THWARTING A WIRELESS INCENDIARY  129

      X. A LESSON IN DIPLOMACY            152

     XI. A VISIT TO CHINATOWN             173

    XII. A CLOSE CALL                     198

   XIII. ROY GAINS ANOTHER FRIEND         221

    XIV. A TRIP TO THE OIL FIELDS         229

     XV. S O S                            240

    XVI. LATITUDE 28--LONGITUDE 96        266

   XVII. LAND AHEAD!                      281

  XVIII. BACK INTO THE STORM              298

    XIX. VICTORY                          314

       *       *       *       *       *

The Young Wireless Operator--Afloat




CHAPTER I THE NEW WIRELESS MAN


Roy Mercer sat by a window in a fast express-train that was rushing
across the Newark meadows on the way to New York City. Three years
previously Roy had made a similar trip. As he looked back now over
those three years, it seemed to him impossible that so much could have
happened in so short a time. When he had first crossed these same
meadows the country was engaged in deadly warfare, and he had come,
with other members of the Camp Brady Wireless Patrol, to help the
government find the secret wireless system by which German spies were
sending abroad information as to the movements of American troops and
American transports. Long ago the wireless patrol had accomplished its
work and gone home. Now the great World War was ended. And although
peace had not been formally declared, more than seven months had
already elapsed since the signing of the armistice that had brought an
end to the terrible conflict. In that period the nation had swung back
into its accustomed channels, and the activities of peace had succeeded
the feverish efforts of war.

But the thing that had made the greatest difference in Roy’s life was
the death of his father. Long ago the cherished hope of a college
course had disappeared, for upon Roy had devolved the duty of caring,
not only for himself, but also for his mother. Manfully he had put
aside his desire and taken up the hard task that confronted him.
Through great determination and perseverance, coupled with the devotion
of his mother, Roy had managed to complete his course at the Central
City High School. Now, at nineteen years of age, he was about to make
his way alone in the world.

His active outdoor life, and the hard work he had been compelled to
do since the death of his father, had developed Roy both physically
and mentally. Always alert, keen, and quick, in these last few months
he had developed unusual qualities of self-reliance, trustworthiness,
and good judgment that promised well for his future success. But Roy
was fortunate enough to have more than good qualities to start life
with. Unlike many boys who go to New York to seek their fortunes, Roy
already had a job. He was going to be the wireless man on the steamship
_Lycoming_. The vessel was one of the new steamers built by Uncle Sam
during the war, and was very shortly to make her maiden trip as a
coastwise liner between New York and Galveston.

As Roy sat musing over the events that had led up to his present
journey to America’s greatest seaport, his train of thought was
suddenly interrupted by the loud voice of a brakeman.

“Manhattan Transfer!” shouted that individual. “Change cars for lower
New York. This car goes to the Pennsylvania Station at Thirty-third
Street.”

The train came to a grinding stop. Immediately there was great hustle
and bustle. Passengers poured out of the coaches and crossed the narrow
platform to the waiting cars on the farther track. Others stood on the
platform ready to swarm into the newly arrived train. Roy’s destination
was lower Manhattan, but he made no move to change cars. His orders did
not require him to report for duty until the next day. He was in no
hurry. He had come a day ahead of time in order to familiarize himself
with his instruments and his new quarters, and make the acquaintance of
his future associates. Just now he wanted to see something of the city.
So he sat quietly in his seat, watching the hurrying throng on the
platform.

Presently there was a slight shock that jarred the great steel coaches,
and Roy knew that the big steam locomotive that had hauled the train
from Central City had been replaced by an electric locomotive that
was to pull the train through the tunnel under the Hudson River. A
few seconds later the conductor cried out his warning, and the train
glided smoothly away from the long platform. Soon it was flying across
the stretches of meadow that lay between the junction point they had
just left and the landward side of the Palisades, where it would plunge
under ground.

The very last leg of Roy’s journey had begun. The very last step in
that long stairway of years that led from the cradle to man’s estate
was under foot. For though Roy lacked two years of his majority, he was
henceforth to take a man’s place among men. Roy thrilled at the thought
that inside of twenty-four hours he would no longer be plain Roy
Mercer, the Central City High School lad, but Mr. Mercer of the Marconi
service, with his own quarters aboard a fine ship, a place at the
officers’ table, and a smart uniform. Perhaps the idea of the uniform
appealed to Roy quite as much as did the knowledge that he was about
to take his place among the ship’s officers. His heart beat fast, and
his whole being thrilled with pride at the thought that he was the
youngest operator in the Marconi service. Roy fairly hugged himself as
he thought of his good luck in securing such a desirable berth.

Then the thought came to him that perhaps it wasn’t all luck after all.
Certainly, he thought, he must have deserved at least a part of his
good fortune. There was nothing conceited about Roy. But he knew, as
no one else could know, how hard he had worked to perfect himself in
wireless telegraphy, and how faithful he had been in the performance of
his duty as a member of the wireless patrol. For it was the reputation
that he had made during the wireless patrol’s search for the secret
wireless that had won him his present position as wireless man on the
_Lycoming_.

Straightway he fell to musing over the events of the years that had
passed since his first summer in camp at Fort Brady. Vividly he
recalled how he and Henry Harper had slowly and laboriously constructed
their first wireless outfits after some blueprint patterns sent to
Henry by the latter’s uncle; how every member of the Camp Brady group
had made a similar instrument; how the little band had become the
wireless patrol when war threatened, and how they had run down the
German dynamiters at Elk City. With pride he thought of his recent
services in New York, when he and three other members of the wireless
patrol had been selected to help the United States Secret Service
uncover the secret wireless of the Germans. Roy was not the sort of boy
to flatter himself, but he knew well enough that never in the world
would he have been accepted in the Marconi service at his age or been
made wireless man on the _Lycoming_ had it not been for the efficient
work done in days past.

“It’s a mighty encouraging thing to know,” said Roy to himself, “that
my getting the job wasn’t all kick. If I earned _this_ place, I can
earn a still better one. But it means hard work. It means that I’ve got
to be absolutely faithful in everything I do, always on the job, always
on the lookout to help the company, always courteous to passengers,
always helpful to my captain. Gee whiz! It’s some job ahead of me. I
can see that all right. And I can see that above everything else I’ve
got to make good with my captain. What he says about my work will
determine whether or not I ever get ahead. But I’ll make good. I’ve
just got to. I’ve done it before and I can again. But it means work,
work, work.”

Roy’s heart beat high with courage. His jaws tightened and a look of
determination came into his face. Then succeeded a glow of pride as
Roy thought of the times he had already been tried and had made good.
He smiled with satisfaction as he recalled that it was he who caught
the message of the German spies at Elk City.

How well he recalled his vigil that night. How long the hours were.
How dark and still it was there in the forest, with his comrades of
the wireless patrol all asleep and he alone left to guard them and to
keep watch for forbidden radio messages. He recalled how sleepy he was,
how he had fought off his weariness and listened in, hour after hour,
for suspicious voices in the air. Even now his heart beat faster as he
lived over the final triumph of that night. He could almost hear again
that faint little buzz in his ear that proved to be the secret message
they were watching for.

Suppose he had been asleep at that instant. Suppose he had been
unfaithful in his watch. Suppose he had relaxed his vigilance for even
a few seconds. The message would never have been intercepted. The
dynamiters would never have been caught. The people of Elk City would
have paid for his faithlessness with their lives. Roy shuddered at the
thought of the awful wall of water that might have overwhelmed the
unfortunate dwellers in that city had the reservoir been dynamited.

“But I wasn’t unfaithful,” muttered Roy to himself. “I did my work
right, just as I am going to do it on board the _Lycoming_. And if I
do, I’ll win the good-will of Captain Lansford, just as sure as I won
that of Captain Hardy.” Again a look of determination came into Roy’s
face. “I’ve just got to make good,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve just
got to. And I will.”

A subtle change came over his face. Once more his mind had gone back
to the scenes about Elk City. He was thinking of his secret journey
in a motor-car through an isolated and rough mountain road with the
outfits of his companions. Vividly he recalled how a big boulder had
come crashing down the mountainside, breaking his steering gear. He
smiled with satisfaction as he recalled how he had met the situation
by improvising a wireless outfit with some wires, an umbrella, and the
battery of his car. How pleased his captain had been!

“I’m going to please Captain Lansford just as much,” said Roy to
himself, and once more that look of determination came into his face.

Then the train suddenly shot under ground and daylight was blotted out.
Down, down, deep into the earth Roy could feel the train descending,
though the grade was very gradual. His ears began to feel queer and he
knew that he must be in the deepest part of the tunnel. Then the train
moved upward. In another minute it shot into the light. Roy glanced out
of the window at the high cement walls on either side. They were at the
Pennsylvania Station. Roy rose and moved toward the door. His face was
flushed. His pulse beat fast. He felt like a runner toeing the mark. He
was about to begin the race of life. He felt fit. He was trained to the
minute. His whole being pulsed with joy. He had left boyhood behind.
Henceforth he would be a man among men. In every sense he determined
to be one. All aglow with high resolve, he passed out of the train,
through the great station, and into the roaring streets.

The glow of satisfaction faded from his face. Cold and hostile
seemed the city. The rushing traffic appeared cruel and heartless,
threatening to overwhelm even the vigilant. Passers-by were as cold and
unfriendly as the hard and echoing stone pavements. They brushed by,
seemingly indifferent to any one or anything but themselves and their
own concerns. The very air was raw and chilly. The entire atmosphere
was oppressive. It seemed to take the heart out of Roy. It made him
feel how tiny he was, how insignificant in comparison with this great
aggregation of forces that men had brought together. Suddenly Roy
realized that this was the thing he had to fight--this roaring thing
called a city, where every man’s hand would be against him, where he
could get ahead only by brute force, by overcoming whatever obstacles
rose in his way. Apparently there was not a soul to help him. Success
or failure depended upon his own efforts. The thought was bewildering,
crushing, disheartening. For an instant fear clutched his heart and
blanched his face.

And that was not because he was terrified by the noise of the
unaccustomed traffic, or confused by the hurry and bustle. Those
features of the city’s life were as familiar to Roy as the city itself
was, for in the weeks he had spent in New York during the search for
the secret wireless, he had become well acquainted with the geography
of the town. The difference was that then he was with friends. Henry
Harper and Lew Heinsling and Willie Brown were with him, and their
beloved leader, Captain Hardy, was always watching their movements to
keep them out of trouble and direct their efforts. Then Roy had been
among friends. Now he knew not where to find a friendly face. For the
first time in his life he was realizing, as thousands of boys before
him have realized, the awful loneliness that can come to one in a big
city. The feeling almost overwhelmed him. Gone were his plans to see
something of the city. A friendly face meant more to him now than all
the sights New York had ever held.

“I’ll go straight to the _Lycoming_,” said Roy to himself. “Even if I
don’t know any of the men on board, they will at least be friendly.”

He hurried over to Ninth Avenue and caught a south-bound elevated
railway train. In less than half an hour he left the train and made
his way to the water-front. The vast expanse of asphalt known as “the
farm,” that borders the Hudson for miles, was seething with traffic.
Skilfully Roy picked his way across the wide thoroughfare, dodging
trucks and drays, and heading straight for the big piers of the
Confederated Steamship Lines.

The watchman at the entrance stopped him and demanded to know his
business. Roy explained.

“Go on,” said the watchman, but he looked at Roy suspiciously.

Roy passed on into the great pier shed. At one side of the pier lay the
_Lycoming_. Nobody paid the least attention to Roy. He made his way
aboard the vessel.

“What do you want here?” asked a sailor gruffly, as he slouched on the
gangway.

“I want to see the captain,” said Roy.

“He’s busy. Come around later,” replied the sailor.

“I’m the new wireless man,” explained Roy.

“I didn’t recognize you, sir,” said the sailor, instantly straightening
up and touching his cap. “The captain is in his cabin. This way, sir.”
And he led Roy to an upper deck.

“Come in,” said a gruff voice, in answer to Roy’s knock.

Roy pushed open the captain’s door and stepped inside the cabin. “I’m
the new wireless man, Captain Lansford,” he said briefly. “My name is
Roy Mercer.”

The ship’s commander rose to his feet. He was fully six feet tall and
large of frame. His hair was black, and heavy, bushy, black brows
almost hid his dark, piercing eyes. His nose was large and hawk-like.
So weather-beaten was his skin that it seemed almost like leather.
For a moment he uttered not a word, as he looked Roy over from head
to foot. Then, in a tone of utter disgust, he said, “You--a wireless
man! Bah! A wireless babe! I’ll see about this quick,” and he stalked
angrily from the cabin.

“Wireless man! Bah!” repeated the captain as he hurried down the
stairway. “Thirty years I’ve sailed the seas and the only wireless I
ever saw was God’s lightning. Yet I never lost a man or a ship. The
owners have ordered it, and I suppose I’ll have to put up with their
newfangled machines. But I’ll be hanged if I’ll have an infant in
arms to work ’em. That’s flat. I’ll tell those Marconi people what’s
what.” And he bustled angrily off to the telephone in the office at the
shoreward end of the pier shed.

Meantime Roy stood in the captain’s cabin, disheartened and
disconsolate. No wonder he felt downhearted. The man he must please had
taken a dislike to him at the very outset. He did not know what to do,
so he did nothing. With a heart like lead he waited for the return of
Captain Lansford. Presently that irate individual came storming back.

“Get up to the wireless house,” he said roughly. “I’ve got to keep
you for three months until a new class is ready. But I don’t need any
wireless to run _my_ ship by, so don’t you come bothering me. Good-day,
sir.”

“Good-day, sir,” echoed Roy, but the echo was very faint indeed.
Disconsolately he stepped from the captain’s cabin, found his way to
the wireless house, and shut the door tight behind him. For the moment
his courage was almost gone. Sick at heart, he sat down to think over
the situation.




CHAPTER II THE SECRET OF SUCCESS


“It’s the same old story,” muttered Roy to himself, after a time.
“I wonder if they will ever stop saying ‘You’re only a boy.’ That’s
what they said at Camp Brady. Yet the wireless patrol ran down the
dynamiters when the state police couldn’t find them. That’s what they
said here in New York when we were searching for the secret wireless.
Yet we found it, even if we were boys. That’s what Captain Lansford
says now. Shall I ever be old enough to escape it?”

Yet it was fortunate for Roy that he _was_ but nineteen. At nineteen
one possesses the resiliency of youth. One rebounds like a rubber ball.
It was so with Roy. A while longer he sat, his head buried in his
hands, his heart full of woe. Hardly could he keep the tears back. Then
the buoyancy of youth asserted itself.

“Only a boy,” he said presently, straightening up. “Isn’t there anybody
in the world who knows that sometimes boys have brains and courage and
common sense? What was David but a boy when he fought Goliath? What was
General Grant but a boy when he loaded the logs alone? Who fought the
Civil War but boys? I don’t care if I am a boy. I can read and send
wireless messages with the best of them, and there’s nothing conceited
in my saying so, for it’s a fact. Only a boy, eh? All right, I’ll show
them what a boy can do. Maybe that captain can run his ship without the
help of wireless, but I’ll bet that after he’s had the wireless service
for----”

Roy broke off suddenly and his face became very serious. “I almost
forgot,” he said to himself soberly, “that I have only three months to
serve on this ship. Just as soon as the next class is graduated from
the Marconi Institute, I’ll lose my job.”

Roy’s face was very long indeed. “Maybe I’ll never get another place,”
he said. “If I can’t make good on this ship, how can I ever get a job
on another boat?”

For a while Roy sat in deep thought. Then a wan smile flitted across
his face. “You’re doing just what Captain Hardy warned you not to do,”
he muttered to himself. “You’re brooding over trouble. If Captain Hardy
were here, he’d tell you to get busy and make good before you lose
your job. That’s what he would say. Well, I don’t know just what to
do, but I’ll make a beginning anyway. And that’ll be to get into my
uniform.”

Roy jumped to his feet, opened his case, and took out his shining
new uniform. Rapidly he put off his old suit and donned the new. A
mirror hung at one end of his room. In this Roy surveyed himself
with unqualified satisfaction. The trim, blue uniform fitted him
snugly, emphasizing the fact that he possessed unusually broad, square
shoulders and a slim waist. He stood up before the glass as straight
as a young pine. Any one with half an eye for physique could have
told that he was unusually powerful for a boy of his age and that he
gave promise of being a man of great strength. His quick turns, as he
surveyed himself, first on one side and then on the other, gave ample
evidence of his agility. Could Captain Lansford, who admired physical
prowess above almost every other quality, have seen Roy now, he might
have formed a more favorable opinion of his new wireless man.

The Scriptures tell us that as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.
The truth of that saying was illustrated now in Roy’s case. The pride
of his new position and his new uniform filled his soul. Gone was
the stoop in his shoulders. The expression of gloom had disappeared
from his countenance. In its place appeared the old look of cheerful
confidence and determination. Straightway Roy began to look about him.

The glow of satisfaction on his face deepened. His little house,
perched on the topmost deck like an eagle’s aerie, was snug and
comfortable beyond anticipation. To Roy it seemed almost palatial. The
portion that was partitioned off for his sleeping quarters contained
his bunk, a commodious closet, the fine mirror before which he now
stood, and all the other accommodations that would be found in a
first-class stateroom. The woodwork was beautifully finished. Generous
coils of steam-pipes gave promise of abundant warmth even when the
fiercest winter storms were blowing. Convenient electric fixtures
were provided for lighting. Altogether his quarters were so snug and
inviting that Roy momentarily forgot his troubles.

When he had ended his survey of his little sleeping room and stepped
into the wireless room proper, his heart fairly leaped with joy. On one
side of the little cabin was the operating table, with its array of
shining instruments. A leather-covered couch stood along the opposite
wall. There was a small rack for signal and code books, stationery,
etc., and a chair or two. But Roy gave scant attention to the
furnishings. He had eyes only for the beautiful, glittering instruments
on the operating table. The wireless outfit was complete. It included
every necessary instrument, and each was of the finest type, with the
latest improvements. Exultantly Roy fingered one after another. Never
had he dared hope to have such an outfit as was now his. Of course
it was not literally his, but nevertheless Roy felt all the joy of
ownership. For three months, at least, it would be his. No one else
might touch those shining instruments. Not even the captain, Roy fondly
believed, would dare to molest them. Like Alexander Selkirk, Roy was
monarch of all he surveyed.

But the mere handling of his instruments would never satisfy a boy like
Roy. He sat down at the table and eagerly clamped the receivers to his
ears. Skilfully he tuned his instrument, now to this wave-length, now
to that. Clear as bells on a frosty morning came the voices in the air,
and Roy’s eyes sparkled as he listened in.

By this time he had forgotten all about his rebuff by Captain Lansford.
He was himself again, alert, quick, curious as to all about him,
intently interested in every new phase of life. And life aboard ship
was distinctly new to Roy. The voices in the air he had listened to a
thousand times. To him they were an old story. But a great, ocean-line
steamship was still a delightful mystery to Roy. He wanted to know more
about it.

Laying his receivers on the table, he sprang to his feet, put on his
new cap, with its gold braid and its letters wrought in gold, and
left the cozy little wireless house. Hardly had he reached the ladder
when his eye was caught by the activities on the pier. Though Roy had
spent many weeks in New York, he had had small opportunity to see the
shipping close at hand. So the scene on the pier below was as novel to
Roy as though he had never been near a seaport.

Streaming in and out of the steamer’s hold was a double line of
stevedores, each pushing before him a strong barrel truck. Those
entering were trundling great boxes or bales. Those emerging pushed
only their empty trucks. Boxes, bales, packages and parcels of every
conceivable size and shape followed one another into the hold in
endless procession, while as endlessly stevedores came empty-handed out
of the ship. The steady procession of freight handlers reminded Roy of
a double line of ants, some laden, others with nothing to carry. Many
a time Roy had watched ants bearing spoils to their nests. Often he
had marveled at their strength, as they dragged along objects greater
in size than themselves. But never had he marveled at the ants as he
now wondered at these brawny stevedores. Enormous boxes, twice or
thrice their own bulk, and weighing, Roy felt sure, several hundred
pounds apiece, they handled like so many bags of feathers, trundling
them swiftly over the uneven plank flooring of the pier, shooting down
the gangplank with them, often to the apparent imminent peril of their
fellows. Yet never a collision occurred, and never a crate was spilled
or upset.

When Roy grew tired of watching the freight handlers, he turned away
from the ship’s rail and descended to the pier. For the first time
in his life he had a really good look at the inside of a great pier
shed. Jutting straight out from the shore, the long, narrow pier,
built on pilings and tightly roofed over and walled in, extended an
unbelievable distance into the river. With quick appreciation of its
real length, Roy saw that one could run a hundred yards straightaway on
the pier without covering half its length. In width it might have been
seventy-five to one hundred feet. This great warehouse--for in effect
it was that--was piled high with mountainous heaps of freight, and a
seemingly endless procession of drays and motor-trucks was constantly
adding to the store. From these huge piles the stevedores were bringing
the freight they were rushing into the hold of the _Lycoming_.

It was a stirring sight to see the trucks constantly arriving and
departing, some piles of freight growing bigger and bigger with every
incoming load, while others as constantly dwindled in size. The former
piles, Roy soon found, were accumulating for other ships, while the
decreasing stacks had been brought on previous days for the _Lycoming_.

Roy gained thus his first inkling of what was meant by the term
commerce. Never before had he seen such huge stacks of goods assembled
in one place. It seemed to Roy as though all the wares of all the
merchants in Central City would hardly make so great a pile if boxed
and stacked together. Yet all these materials were sufficient only to
fill two or three steamships of moderate size. When Roy thought of the
miles and miles of piers along New York’s water-front, and realized
that each pier probably contained fully as many manufactured products
as the _Lycoming_’s pier, it seemed beyond belief. Then he thought of
the labor necessary to handle all these mountains of goods. On his own
pier dozens of men were at work. Motor-trucks and horse-drawn drays
came and went ceaselessly, hour after hour. It was awesome to think
about.

“And this,” said Roy to himself, “is only one of scores and scores of
piers. And New York is only one of America’s seaports. Then there are
all the railway stations and freight depots. My goodness! Think how
many hands it must take to move all the stuff----”

Roy stopped in sheer inability to comprehend the vista of American
industry he had opened for himself.

“Well,” he muttered after a time, “I see one thing. The whole country
is united in a great business. If any part of that business stops it
affects all the rest. Suppose all the boats along this river couldn’t
make their trips on time. The piers would fill up so they would hold
no more. That would throw the truckmen out of work. Shipments from the
mills would have to stop. Railroad crews would lose their jobs and the
mills would shut down. That would be an awful calamity.”

The idea was so appalling that Roy paused to ponder over it. “I see
one thing clearly enough,” he said to himself at last. “Everybody
everywhere has to do his part if the whole business is to run right.
Our job is to sail the _Lycoming_ safely and right on the minute. Maybe
I won’t be with her long, but as long as I am with her I’m going to do
my best to keep her safe and right on the dot. That’s my job all right.”

It was. And if Roy had been a bit older, he would have known that it
was exactly the way to make good with Captain Lansford in particular
and the world in general. Without realizing it, Roy had set forth the
fundamental rule of success--to do with your might what your hands find
to do.

When Roy had tired of watching the toiling stevedores, he strolled up
the pier and out to the street.




CHAPTER III ROY’S FIRST FIRE


So engrossed in the life about him was Roy that for the moment he
forgot all about his troubles. On the street he encountered again
the multitudinous traffic that had so depressed him upon his arrival
in the city. But here it seemed to go at a slower pace. There were
more heavily laden drays and fewer rushing motor-cars. Somehow the
atmosphere of the “farm,” with its hard toiling drivers and signs of
honest industry seemed different from the cold and callous air of
Seventh Avenue and of Broadway. At any rate, Roy felt different.

Probably that was because he had made the plunge. Even if his captain
was not what Roy had hoped and expected, the ordeal of meeting him
was over. Furthermore, Roy was now on his mettle. Unconsciously he
was reacting from the captain’s contemptuous attitude. Like any lad
of spirit, his pride was hurt and his sense of justice outraged. His
captain had condemned him without trial. Roy was determined to prove
that he merited his commander’s fullest confidence rather than his
contempt.

So now he walked along, holding himself proudly erect in his new
uniform, his head up, his heart singing. In fact it could not have been
otherwise; for, trouble or no trouble, he had at last reached the place
every boy of spirits longs for: he had a job. He had made a start in
real life.

The pier of the Confederated Steamship Lines was not far from the foot
of Manhattan Island. Instinctively Roy turned his footsteps southward
toward the Battery, that little strip of green that fronts the upper
bay and that tips the end of the island like the cap on a shoe. Often
during the search for the secret wireless, Roy had passed through this
tiny park on his way to the Staten Island ferry, just to one side. But
he had never really had time to look about. He decided that now he
would explore a bit. Like any other wide-awake lad, Roy wanted to see
and know all that he possibly could.

“I’ll look about the lower end of the island,” said Roy to himself.
“Maybe I’ll find something of interest.”

Roy was right, but he had small notion of how much he would find that
was interesting. The park was not unlike a half moon in shape. Paved
walks, lined with benches, led hither and thither between the stretches
of greensward, and trees and bushes beautified and shaded the grounds.
A lively breeze was coming off the water, and this was grateful, for
the day was a hot one in late June.

Roy made his way directly through the little park to the water-front.
A low sea-wall, built of great blocks of granite, formed the very end
of the island. Along this sea-wall ran a wide promenade of asphalt,
with benches on the landward side. The sweeping wind was churning the
bay into whitecaps, and these came slap! slap! against the sea-wall,
throwing showers of water high into the air and drenching the
promenade. Even the benches on the landward side of the broad walk were
soaked by the driving spray.

But the thing that took Roy’s eye was the harbor. Six miles away, as
the crow flies, rose the hills of Staten Island, where he and his
fellows had watched so long for the German spies. Far to the right
were the low shores of New Jersey, almost hidden in the smoke pall of
the cities there bordering the bay. In that direction, too, loomed the
Goddess of Liberty, symbol of all that the word America means to the
world--the gigantic goddess whose high-held torch, flaming through the
midnight darkness, shows the anxious mariner his way through the murky
waters of the harbor. To the left were the shores of Brooklyn and the
cliffs of Bay Ridge. While near at hand and almost in front of the
little park lay Governor’s Island, with its antiquated stone fort, its
barracks, and all the other buildings necessary in a military post. For
Governor’s Island is the army headquarters for the Department of the
East.

The miles of water, now tossing turbulently and capped with white, were
alive with shipping. One of the great municipal ferry-boats, starting
for St. George, was tossing the spray to right and left as she breasted
the waves. Tugs, seemingly without number, were puffing and bustling
about, mostly with great barges or lighters on either side of them,
like men carrying huge boxes under each arm. Some of these barges were
car floats, with strings of freight-cars on their decks. Some were
huge, enclosed lighters, built like dry-goods boxes, and towering so
high in air as fairly to hide the tugs that were propelling them. A
string of twenty barges, like a twenty-horse team, with ten couples,
two abreast and drawn by twin tugs far ahead of them, was coming down
the Hudson. Heavily laden freighters of one sort or another were riding
deep in the swelling waves. One or two sailing vessels, beating their
way across the harbor, were heeling far over under the sharp wind. A
motor-boat was scooting across the end of the island, and Roy even saw
a venturesome Battery boatman riding the waves in a rowboat, at times
standing out boldly on the crest of a wave and again almost lost to
sight in the trough. But the sight that caught Roy’s eye and thrilled
his heart was an incoming ocean liner, her high decks crowded with a
multitude of expectant folks. Many of those folks were men who had come
to New York, like himself, to seek their fortunes. But they had come
from far across the seas. They were strangers in a strange land. Roy
wondered how they felt.

“If _those_ fellows come here and succeed,” smiled Roy to himself, as
he watched the ship ride majestically by, “I’d be a poor pill if I
couldn’t make good, wouldn’t I? Why, a lot of them can’t speak English,
and they’ve never even been to school. I’ll make that captain of mine
take back what he said.”

Poor Roy! If he could have seen all the difficulties ahead of him, he
would not have smiled so confidently. But he could not, and presently
he turned away from the harbor, still light-hearted, to see what
further things of interest he could discover.

At that instant a bell clanged. Close at hand, and directly on the
water-front, Roy had noticed a low structure with a little tower. But
he had been so engrossed with the stirring spectacle of the harbor
craft that he had paid scant attention to the building or the narrow,
low craft moored to the pier in front of the building. He judged that
this bell, which was still striking sharply, must be in this building.
Curious to know what the bell signified, Roy turned sharply about. He
was just in time to see a number of men in dark blue uniforms rush from
the building, race across the narrow wharf, and leap into the little
boat. The hawsers were cast off and in a second’s time the little craft
was shooting swiftly from her pier.

“I never saw anything like that before,” said Roy to himself. “I wonder
what that can be.”

He ran over to the little house, and on its front were the words “Fire
Department--City of New York.”

“By George!” muttered Roy. “Those fellows are firemen and that is one
of those fire-boats I’ve read about.”

He ran around to the seaward side of the building and took a good look
at the little steamer that was plunging through the waves at a rapid
rate. She was long, low, narrow, and decked over in the centre somewhat
like a low lighter. She resembled a tug more than anything else, yet
she was unlike any tug Roy had ever seen. Fore and aft and amidships,
Roy saw long, glistening brass nozzles permanently mounted on the
superstructure and he knew that the boat’s engines would suck up the
harbor water and shoot it through these nozzles with terrific force.

How he wished he could be aboard of her. How he would like to help
fight the fire. He wondered where it could be. The little boat was
heading straight for the Brooklyn shore. There Roy saw smoke rolling
upward in great clouds from a pier shed. The distance was so great that
Roy could not see distinctly, but he was sure that tugs were trying to
pull a great steamship from her berth beside the burning pier. Even as
he watched, flames burst from the shed. They swept outward in great
sheets as they were fanned by the draughts within the shed. To Roy it
seemed as though the flames were fairly licking the helpless liner.

“Will they get her away in time?” Roy asked himself, and his heart
almost stood still as he watched the struggle. It seemed to him that
the great ship was moving, but he could not be sure. Intently he
watched. After a few minutes he was certain that the distance between
the pier and the ship was growing greater. But it was still so small
that the flames blew about the boat like clouds of fire, and Roy knew
that blazing embers must be fairly raining on the ship’s decks.

So fascinated was he by the struggle that he completely forgot the
little fire-boat until suddenly it shot into his field of vision. It
steamed directly between the endangered ship, from which Roy could now
see puffs of smoke arising, and the blazing pier. In another instant
Roy saw great columns of water shoot from the fire-boat’s nozzles and
fall in drenching torrents on the helpless liner. Gradually the tugs
pushed the huge craft farther and farther from the shore. The fire-boat
stood alongside and hurled thousands of gallons of water over her,
until the last vestige of smoke disappeared from the big ship. Then the
fire-boat steamed close to the pier, which was now a roaring bonfire,
and played its streams steadily into the flames.

Roy heaved a sigh of relief. “They saved her,” he said to himself.
“They saved her. But suppose there had been no fire-boat. The land
engines couldn’t have helped her a bit. She’d have burned to the
water’s edge. That would have been terrible.”

It came to Roy that a fire at sea was a million times worse than a
conflagration like the one he was watching. “Those people over there,”
he muttered, as he looked at the rescued ship, “could have gotten away
even if the ship had burned. The tugs would have taken them off. But if
a ship ever got afire on the ocean the people aboard wouldn’t have one
chance in a thousand.”

Suddenly a great light leaped into his eyes. “Yes, they would,” he
corrected himself. “And that chance would be the wireless. It could
bring help to a ship at sea just as surely as that fire gong brought
the fire-boat.”

On his face came a look of deepest determination. “If ever anything
like that happens on the _Lycoming_,” he muttered.

But the sentence went unfinished. Again the gong in the fire-house
clanged its warning. It was another alarm. Hardly had it sounded before
a whistle shrieked long and sharply at the western end of the Battery.
Everywhere whistles were tooting, as vessels exchanged signals with one
another in the crowded harbor; but this whistle was so insistent, so
unlike the tooting signals all about him, that Roy turned to discover
what could have made it. He was just in time to see a little steamer
poke her nose out from behind the pier at the western end of the
promenade. Sharply the craft turned eastward and in another moment was
speeding past Roy almost in the path the fire-boat had taken. The
boat was a small, shapely craft that looked more like a private yacht
than anything else. What instantly caught Roy’s eye were the wireless
antennæ strung above the boat.

Roy’s eyes sparkled. “That’s the police boat _Patrol_,” he thought.
“She’s going to the fire.” And his mind went back to the night when
he and his companions had raced up the East River on that same little
craft in their search for the secret wireless.

For a long time Roy stood looking at the little police boat as she
fought her way through the swirling current, but actually he saw
nothing. He was lost in thought. Then a passer-by caught his attention.
Scores of persons had gone by while Roy was watching the fire, yet he
had paid no heed to any of them. But the instant his eye rested on this
man Roy felt attracted to him.

The stranger was somewhat stout and his face was tanned a deep
brown, as though he had been exposed to wind and weather. He wore a
well-fitting suit of yachting flannels and a yachting cap of blue
was set rather rakishly on his head. Roy instantly decided that the
stranger must be a seafaring man. But what attracted Roy to the man was
the latter’s jolly, friendly expression. He fairly exuded good nature.
Roy felt that he would like to know the man. The stranger, however,
hardly noticed Roy, but walked rapidly along the promenade, with a step
that was wonderfully light and quick for a man of his build. Roy knew
that it was impolite to stare at people, but he was so drawn to this
passer-by that he couldn’t resist the temptation to turn around and
watch him. In another second he was glad he had done so.

A great wave crashed against the sea-wall and showered both Roy and
the stranger with spray. Roy was annoyed at getting his new uniform
wet. The stranger only laughed, though he was far wetter than Roy. From
a side pocket of his coat he drew a white handkerchief and wiped the
spray from his face. With the handkerchief he pulled out a letter. He
did not notice it, and in a second the wind whirled it away through the
park.

“Wait a minute,” shouted Roy. “You lost a letter.” And he dashed across
the green after the flying envelope. His voice was drowned in the babel
of sounds and the stranger went on his way unheeding.

Roy pursued the elusive paper almost to Broadway before he managed to
clutch it. Then he turned and dashed back across the park. The stranger
had disappeared, but Roy knew that he could single the man out because
of his white clothes. So he ran on down the promenade in the direction
the stranger had taken. But he could find him nowhere. Roy reached the
western end of the promenade and looked up West Street. The man was
nowhere in sight.

“He couldn’t have gone much farther than this,” reasoned Roy. “Probably
he has gone into some building. He might have gone into the harbor
police station. I’ll look there for him.” And Roy turned toward the
building on the pier from beside which the _Patrol_ had emerged.

He pushed open the door and entered the Harbor A Station. A lieutenant
of police sat behind a big desk and on the floor before him was the man
Roy was searching for. But the man’s expression had changed greatly. He
looked troubled and worried.

“I beg your pardon,” said Roy, stepping toward the stranger, “but this
letter belongs to you. It came out of your pocket when you pulled your
handkerchief out and the wind blew it away. I shouted at you to wait,
but I suppose you didn’t hear me. I had to chase it nearly to Broadway
and when I got back you had gone. I’m glad I found you.”

“By George, youngster!” said the man, grasping the letter eagerly.
“You aren’t half as glad as I am. That’s a mighty important letter. I
discovered when I replaced my handkerchief that it was missing, and I
stepped in here to report the loss. I thought I had been robbed.”

He looked the letter over critically to make sure it was all right.
“You’ve done me a mighty good turn, youngster,” he said. “What do I owe
you?”

Roy drew back, frowning. “Nothing, sir,” he said. “I didn’t chase your
letter for money.”

The man looked sharply at Roy. “Then what did you do it for?” he
demanded.

Roy was rather nonplused. “Why, why--there wasn’t anything else to do,”
he stammered. “You lost your letter; nobody else saw you lose it; and
so there wasn’t anything else to do.”

The stranger laughed uproariously. Roy felt almost hurt. His face must
have betrayed the fact, for suddenly the stranger checked his laugh.
“You’re a fine lad,” he said. “A fine lad. And it’s plain as the
Woolworth Building that you don’t belong in this town.”

Roy was astonished. “I don’t,” he assented, “but how did you know it?”

Again the man burst into laughter. “Listen to that, Lieutenant,” he
chuckled. “Listen to that.”

Then, turning to Roy, he said, “Where do you come from, lad? I see by
your uniform that you’re a wireless man.”

Roy glowed with pride. “My home is in Pennsylvania,” he replied. “I’m
the wireless man on the Confederated liner _Lycoming_.”

“The deuce you are!” said the man. “The deuce you are!” And his eyes
fairly danced. Then he added, with a chuckle, “Have you met Captain
Lansford yet?”

Roy’s sober expression was answer enough for the stranger. He burst
into another hearty laugh. Then he said; “See here, lad. Don’t you pay
any attention to Captain Lansford. His bark is worse than his bite. You
do your duty and you’ll make good with him.”

“Do you know him?” asked Roy incredulously.

“I should say I do,” rejoined the stranger. “But I must be on my way.
I’ve got a lot to do.”

He thanked Roy again for his kindness and turned away. But immediately
he faced about. “Know anybody in this town?” he asked, then added with
a chuckle, “that is, anybody but Captain Lansford?”

“Hardly anybody,” said Roy.

“I thought so,” said the stranger. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“I thought I might find something interesting down here,” said Roy. “I
want to see everything I can while I have the opportunity.”

“Good boy,” said the stranger. “That’s the way to get ahead. You’ve
come to the right place to see things, too. Why, lad, this is one
of the most interesting places in all America. Yes, and in all the
world--this neighborhood right here. I could talk to you about it for
hours, but I haven’t time now. Go get yourself a guide-book and go over
the place thoroughly. You’ll never be sorry. If you can’t find one,
I’ll lend you mine. Good-bye.”

“But I may never see you again,” said Roy.

The man chuckled. “Oh! yes you will,” he smiled. “I’m going to look you
up on the _Lycoming_. Good-bye.” He held out his hand, grasped Roy’s so
firmly that he made Roy wince, and was off.

Roy watched him disappear in the crowd. He felt as though a great
weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was no longer alone in a
big city. He had a friend. At least, he believed the man was going to
be his friend, and he was glad of it. But suddenly his face grew long
again.

“I forgot to get his name,” muttered Roy, “and I could have had it
without asking. All I needed to do was to read the address on the
envelope. Now I may never see him again.”

For a minute Roy felt gloomy enough. Then he recalled the man’s promise
to look him up on the _Lycoming_. “If he does,” smiled Roy, “I’ll bet a
dollar I won’t forget again to find out his name. Now I’m going to take
his advice and get a guide-book. Wonder where I can find one.”

A policeman was passing. Roy stopped him and asked where he could
purchase the desired volume. The policeman directed him to a near-by
book shop and in a few minutes Roy was back in Battery Park with a
little guide-book in his hand.




CHAPTER IV IN LOWER NEW YORK


“Now,” thought Roy, as he sought out a shady bench and sat down, “if
this book will tell me, I’m going to find out why this park is called
Battery Park. I’ve often wondered.”

He opened his book and, turning to the index, readily found where to
look for the information. Looking on the proper page, he read: “Battery
Park and Battery Place take their name from the fortification begun in
1693 by Governor Fletcher to defend the city. The original battery was
a line of cannons extending from the foot of Greenwich Street to the
intersection of Whitehall and Water Streets.”

“That was a pretty nice row of cannons,” thought Roy, glancing up from
his book to see about where these guns had stood. With the geography of
the city he was quite familiar, as it had been necessary, during the
search for the secret wireless, for Roy and his companions to acquaint
themselves with the city in order that they could travel surely and
speedily. After he had measured the distance with his eye, he turned
back to the guide-book and read: “The land beyond this line was under
water until after 1800.”

At first Roy did not grasp the significance of the statement. But when
he read that the original shore-line of the lower end of Manhattan
Island is marked approximately by Greenwich, State, and Pearl Streets,
he was almost stunned.

“Why, gee whiz!” he muttered. “That means that all this park, which
the book says contains twenty-one acres, and all the ground on either
side of the lower end of the island for two or three blocks inland is
made land. Just think of that.” In amazement he stared about the little
park, then looked at the two broad blocks between Greenwich Street and
“the farm.” “Made land,” he thought, “every inch of it. Why, they must
have made hundreds of acres. I wonder where they got all the stuff to
fill in with. What a lot of work it must have been! And what a pile of
money it must have cost. But I suppose it’s worth millions and millions
of dollars now.”

He picked up his guide-book again. “The land under water,” he read,
“was ceded to Congress by the city for the erection of a fort to defend
the city. The fort, about three hundred feet from shore, later called
Castle Clinton, was built on a mole and connected with the city by a
bridge. In 1822 it was ceded to the state; in 1823 it was leased to the
city, and in 1824 it was leased as an amusement hall, known as Castle
Garden. It was roofed over and was the scene of Lafayette’s reception
in 1824. In 1835 Samuel F. B. Morse here first demonstrated the
possibility of controlling an electric current. Here Jenny Lind sang
in 1850, and in 1851 Kossuth was received here. In 1855 it became the
Immigration Bureau. In 1891 Battery Park was filled in, and in 1896 the
building was opened as an aquarium.”

“Gee whiz!” smiled Roy happily. “I’ve often heard of the aquarium. It
contains one of the most famous collections of fishes in the world. But
I never dreamed that it was such a famous old place as that. I’m going
to see that, sure. It must be that queer, circular brownstone building
near the harbor police station.”

Roy’s guess proved to be correct, as the sign above the entrance told
him. But before entering he walked completely around the structure.

“Makes you think of a stone bandbox,” said Roy, with a chuckle. “It’s
so much like that funny building on Governor’s Island that they look
like twins. I’ll bet that was another fort.”

Roy was right again. His guide-book said that the old fort on
Governor’s Island was known as Castle William.

In walking around the aquarium Roy discovered at intervals what looked
like window spaces that had been walled in. But he knew that they must
have been the embrasures for the thirty heavy guns with which the fort
was armed.

When he had completed the circuit of the building, Roy went inside.
In the centre of the floor was a tiled tank, like the hub of a wheel,
while strung around the wall, like the tire of the wheel, were tanks
and tanks of fishes, so arranged that the light shone through the
tanks, perfectly illuminating everything in them.

Roy went directly to the circular tank in the centre. It contained a
great sea-cow or manatee. Often Roy had read of these curious creatures
and he knew at once what the thing was. It was as big as a fat pig and
had a broad oval tail, with fore limbs in the form of flippers. The
animal reminded Roy of the performing seals he had seen at a circus. He
had read that at night the manatee is said to come out of the water.
He wondered if it were true. He was particularly interested in this
fish for he knew that it lived in the southern waters he would soon be
sailing. He hoped that he would see some of them in the sea.

In the tank with the manatee were some flounders. Roy was amazed to
note that they were almost white, like the sand in the bottom of the
tank. He had often seen flounders, but never any of that color. It
puzzled him until he remembered that the flounder, like many another
creature, possesses the power of protective coloring. Roy wondered
how it was possible for any creature to change its color to match its
environment. But, like many a wiser person, he pondered over the matter
in vain.

When he had grown tired of watching the sea-cow and the white
flounders, he walked over to the ring of tanks, and, beginning at one
side of the entrance, walked slowly around the building. Never had Roy
dreamed that there could be such fishes as he now beheld. Not only
did he find the familiar fishes of our own waters that he had caught
or seen for sale in the markets, but also he saw strange and curious
creatures from every part of the world. What astonished him most was
the vivid coloring of some of the fishes from the tropics. Roy had
often seen parrots and other tropic birds, and he knew that the birds
in these hot regions were more brilliant in hue than our own birds. But
he had never dreamed that the fishes would likewise be gaily colored.
Yet here he beheld fishes of red and green and blue and yellow, as
brilliant in color as any parrot or parrakeet he had ever seen.

When he had become tired of looking at fishes, Roy left the aquarium
and again sought a shady seat. As he opened his book his glance rested
on the words “Fort Amsterdam.”

“I wonder how many forts those old fellows had, anyway,” thought Roy.
“I’ll just see what it says about Fort Amsterdam,” and he began to
read: “Before the first great fire visited Manhattan in 1626, the
lines of a fort were laid out, occupying the site of the present
Custom House, the work being completed between 1633 and 1635. Fort
Amsterdam, as the work was called, was built of earth and stone and
had four bastions. It rose proudly above the group of small houses and
became the distinctive feature of New Amsterdam. The main gate of the
fort opened on the present Bowling Green, which from the earliest days
was maintained as an open space. It was, in fact, the heart of the
Dutch town. It provided a playground for the children, a site for the
May-pole around which the youths and maidens danced, a parade-ground
for the soldiers, and a place for the market and annual cattle show.
Here also were held those great meetings with the Indians, at which
treaties were arranged and the pipe of peace was smoked. In 1732
it was leased to three citizens who lived close at hand, for one
peppercorn a year, as a private bowling ground, from which fact it
takes its name.”

“Think of that,” mused Roy. “They used to smoke the peace-pipe there.
Now the place is surrounded by sky-scrapers, trolley-cars run past
it, subway trains rumble underneath it, and elevated trains thunder
by within a few feet. I wonder what those Indians would think if they
could ever come back to earth and see Manhattan Island now.” Roy
chuckled at the idea, but when he thought of the Dutch cattle shows he
laughed outright. “Wouldn’t a herd of cattle tethered in Bowling Green
create a sensation now?” he said to himself. “I must take a look at
that place.”

He jumped up and crossed the park, heading for the Custom-house at the
eastern end. This was a huge building, some seven stories in height,
that covered an entire block. Roy walked around it, pausing finally to
admire the groups of beautiful statuary that adorned the front of the
building. For a long time Roy gazed at the Custom-house, and the longer
he looked the more beautiful he thought the building was.

He had often seen it on his previous visit, but he had been so
preoccupied then that he had given little thought to it or any other
building. Though he had learned well the geography of the city, in
order that he might get about with facility, he had learned nothing of
the history or meaning of New York. Now that he was looking at things
from a new point of view, it seemed as though he had never seen them
before. It was so with Bowling Green. Often he had passed the little
fenced-in oval of grass, with its few benches and a tree or two, but it
had been to him only a tiny bit of green. It had held no meaning. Now
in fancy he saw the old fort with its little parade-ground, its gates
open, and the Dutch soldiers marching out to drill. He pictured the
boys and girls frolicking about the May-pole. And when he thought of
the cattle shows, he laughed again.

Roy went into the tiny oval and sat down on a bench to think this all
over. “It was almost three hundred years ago,” he mused, “when they
built that old fort. That’s a long time. It’s so long that I suppose
there isn’t a thing left that was standing in those days. That’s funny,
too, for I’ve read that in England there are buildings hundreds and
hundreds of years old. I wonder what’s the oldest thing here.”

Roy looked about but could find nothing that he thought seemed very
old. “That’s the queer thing about New York,” was his comment. “There
never has been much in it that is old. They keep tearing things down
and building new things in their places all the time. No wonder they
say that New York will never be finished. There isn’t anything old
here.”

But Roy was mistaken, and when he fell to reading in his guide-book
again he discovered it. For the fence that surrounded the little oval
was almost a century and a half old. “This fence,” Roy read, “was
imported from England in 1771 to enclose a lead equestrian statue of
George III. On the posts were the royal insignia. In 1776, during the
Revolution, the lead statue was dragged down and moulded into bullets
by the colonists, and the royal insignia were knocked from the tops of
the posts. The fractures can still be seen.”

Roy jumped up and ran over to the fence. Sure enough, each post showed
plainly that its top had been broken off. Roy was amazed.

“To think that this fence was standing at the time of the Revolution,”
he thought. “Why, Washington must have been here often and he probably
looked at these broken posts just as I have.”

Doubtless Washington did see the posts. Certainly he must have been in
the Bowling Green many a time. Only a short distance from the Bowling
Green, in Fraunces Tavern, at Broad and Pearl Streets, Washington said
farewell to forty-four of his officers at the close of the Revolution,
a fact that Roy soon discovered from his guide-book. Immediately he
hurried away to take a look at this beautiful old building of colonial
design, made of yellow Dutch bricks. Roy admired it very much. A
bronze tablet on the corner of the building stated that it was now the
property of the Sons of the Revolution.

“Good!” thought Roy. “Now I know of two things in New York that haven’t
been torn down. And I don’t believe they ever will be.”

When Roy looked further in his book he found there were many, many old
things remaining, so many that he could not hope to see them in one
day, and particularly not on this day, for it was already supper time.
But there was one place that Roy was eager to see. The guide-book said
that a tablet on the building at 41 Broadway marked the site of the
first houses or huts erected on Manhattan Island by white men. They
were built about 1613.

“I’ll just walk up Broadway,” thought Roy, “and see that tablet.
Then I’ll go on up Broadway, get something to eat, and go back to
the _Lycoming_ after supper. I suppose I could get a meal aboard the
_Lycoming_, but likely I’d have to eat with Captain Lansford.”

Roy walked slowly up the longest street in the world; for Broadway,
extending far beyond the limits of New York City, and passing through
one community after another, is still Broadway half a hundred miles
from Bowling Green. He could hardly have gone otherwise than slowly
if he had tried, for it was the evening rush hour. From every doorway
people were pouring out into the street. The sidewalks were jammed.
The roadway was so crowded with busses and trucks and drays and
trolley-cars and automobiles that it was next to impossible to cross
it. Bells were clanging, automobile horns honking, whistles blowing.
Iron-shod hoofs rang on the pavements. Leather shoes scraped and
shuffled on the stone sidewalks. And all these noises combined in
one ceaseless roar that beat on the ear incessantly. But what most
impressed Roy was the unceasing rush of people. Apparently there was no
end to them. Doorways of high buildings fairly vomited human beings.
But no matter how many persons issued forth, more remained to come
out. Time and time again Roy had seen this evening rush for home, and
always he was impressed by it. It seemed impossible that there could
be so many workers in the city. But when he remembered that some of the
tall buildings about him held as many as ten thousand persons,--almost
as many people as there were in the whole town of Central City--the
rush did not seem so incomprehensible. Every time Roy looked at the
crowd he thought of the ceaseless flow of a rushing stream.

Roy paused when he reached 41 Broadway and read the tablet on the wall.
But he passed on quickly, for the crowded sidewalk was a poor place to
loiter, and the tumult of traffic drove from his head all thoughts of
those sleepy old days when New York was New Amsterdam.

Roy was now in the very heart of that deep canyon formed by the huge
buildings in lower Broadway. He knew that nowhere else in the world
could one find structures like them. There they towered, ten, twenty,
thirty, forty stories high, until it made one almost dizzy to look up
at them. Like the traffic in the street, Roy had seen them often; but
now, as always when he saw them near at hand, he marveled at these huge
structures man had reared two and even three times as high as Niagara,
while the gigantic Woolworth Building, more than four and a half times
the height of Niagara, towered a full seven hundred and fifty feet
above the sidewalk. As Roy looked up Broadway at it now he could not
help feeling awed.

“Just think,” he muttered, “it’s two hundred feet longer than the
_Lycoming_.”

Just then Roy came to a quick lunch room. His eye brightened as he
caught sight of it, for he had had nothing to eat for several hours,
and the salt breeze in the park had whetted an appetite already keen.

Roy entered and ate generously. He took his time about it. Now that he
was relaxed, he found that he was really tired. When he came out of
the restaurant he was amazed at the altered appearance of the street.
The crowd had disappeared. Gone was the multitude of trucks, drays and
motor-cars. A few belated pedestrians were hurrying along the street,
and an occasional wagon rattled by. But now every hoof beat and every
creak of wheel or wagon-body echoed through the deserted thoroughfare,
flung back by the empty hives of buildings that had so recently swarmed
with life. More than ever Roy thought of that rushing throng of
humanity as a surging tide; but now it seemed as though a sluice-gate
had somewhere been closed and only a few tiny trickles were seeping
through.

But somehow the deserted thoroughfare seemed almost more attractive to
Roy than it did when it was seething with traffic. There was so much
he wanted to think about, so many things on every hand that demanded
consideration; and connected thought was almost impossible when so many
persons were rushing by and such a confusing babel of sound smote on
the ear. So now he sauntered slowly up Broadway, thinking about his own
situation, and pondering over the interesting things he had seen.

One by one lights shone forth in the great structures about him--lights
so high that they seemed like yellow stars in the sky. Slowly the
outlines of the individual buildings grew dim and uncertain as darkness
came on. In place of the hulking massive structures of stone he had
been looking at by daylight, Roy now found himself gazing at what
seemed like fairy towers of twinkling, elfin lights. It was wonderful
beyond description. But when Roy looked at the Singer and Woolworth
Buildings, with their beautiful towers of ornate stone rising hundreds
of feet above him and brilliantly illuminated by hidden lights, he was
sure that he had never in his life seen anything so beautiful and so
wonderful. He could find no words to express his delight. But he was
conscious that the feeling of awe which had gripped him as he stared at
these same colored shafts by day was gone. Now he felt only a sense of
charm and delight.

He continued up Broadway until he came to the seething centre of life
about City Hall. When he looked across the little park at the entrance
of the Brooklyn bridge, and saw the bustling activity of Park Row,
he could scarce believe that one short block could make so great a
difference. Roy did not realize that Park Row was the heart of the
night life of lower New York. Centred about it were the homes of many
of New York’s great newspapers, where scores of workers had just gone
on duty and where the “day’s work” was only fairly getting under way.

Roy made his way to the entrance of the Brooklyn bridge and watched in
wonder the endless strings of trolley-cars swing round the terminal
loops, the streams of pedestrians still pouring homeward toward
Brooklyn, the line of carts still rattling up the cobbled roadway to
the bridge. When he expressed his wonder to the bridge policeman at
the information booth, that individual only smiled. For years he had
watched the better part of a million people daily swarm to and fro
across the bridge; and the tail-end of the evening rush, that seemed so
impressive to Roy, was commonplace enough to him.

After a time the scene paled on Roy, and he started for home--his new
home on the _Lycoming_. Knowing well the city’s geography, he did not
retrace his steps but struck off directly for the western water-front,
passing through a maze of deserted, dimly lighted, little streets that
were flanked by dingy buildings of five or six stories. The contrast
with the blazing centre of life he had just left was as striking as
some sudden shift in scenes on the stage of a theatre. In the quiet
and gloom Roy had abundant opportunity for thought. His mind returned
to the problem immediately before him: how he should make good with
Captain Lansford.

So engrossed in this problem did Roy become that he did not hear a
stealthy footstep behind him, and was startled when a form appeared
beside him, and a tough-looking fellow demanded a match.

“Sorry,” said Roy, “but I have no matches with me.”

“Then give me ten cents for beer,” growled the fellow in a still
rougher tone.

“I have no money to give you,” said Roy firmly.

“You haven’t, eh?” sneered the fellow. “Then I’ll just take it.”

He grasped Roy’s shoulder, but Roy wrenched loose from him and drew
back. Quick as a flash the ruffian shot his fist at Roy’s face. Taken
unawares, Roy could not dodge the blow, and it landed full on his left
eye. For an instant he was almost stunned and he could see nothing.
Instinctively he drew back and raised his fists to protect himself.
Roy knew that he was no match for this hulking fellow, who was almost
as large as Captain Lansford, but he meant to fight to the limit to
save the few dollars he possessed. Roy believed that the best defense
was an offensive, and though he could hardly see the man before him,
he rushed at him and struck out with all his might. The fellow was as
much surprised as Roy had been an instant before and the blow struck
him squarely on the chin. He had been coming toward Roy and the impact
was terrific. It bent his head straight back and the fellow dropped to
his knees. Roy should have finished him with another blow, but he could
not hit a man who was down, even though the man had attempted to rob
him. He stepped past the man and walked rapidly toward the water-front,
frequently glancing over his shoulder lest he be pursued. But the
surprised robber had had enough. When he was able to get to his feet he
slunk quickly out of sight.

“I got out of that pretty lucky,” thought Roy. “I’d rather have a
black eye any time than lose my money.”

But Roy almost changed his mind when he reached the ship, for the first
person he met was Captain Lansford. By this time Roy’s eye was both
swollen and discolored, and his face was flushed with excitement. As
luck would have it, he met the captain in the full glare of a bright
light.

“So you’ve been drinking, eh?” roared the captain. “Don’t you know that
drinking is forbidden on this ship?”

“I haven’t been drinking, sir,” said Roy. “Some one----”

Captain Lansford cut him short. “Don’t make it worse by lying about
it,” he said harshly.

Roy’s flushed face grew redder still with indignation. “You have no
right to say that,” he declared hotly.

“Do you dare question my authority on my own ship?” thundered the irate
commander.

“I don’t care whether you are captain of this ship or President of the
United States,” said Roy boldly. “You shall not accuse me of either
drinking or lying. I never touched a drop of liquor in my life and I am
not a liar.”

“If you haven’t been drinking,” demanded Captain Lansford, “how did
you get that black eye?”

“A man set on me and tried to rob me,” replied Roy.

“And you were sober and you let him hit you in the eye? Bah!”

“He hit me when I wasn’t expecting it,” explained Roy.

“And what did you do? Run? Or hand him your money?”

“I knocked him down,” said Roy grimly.

“It’s likely,” rejoined the captain. “Now go to your quarters and don’t
ever let me hear of your drinking again.”

Anger flamed up in Roy’s heart. “Don’t you ever dare to accuse me of
drinking again,” he cried hotly, taking a step toward his superior and
looking him straight in the eye.

“Go to your quarters,” thundered the captain.

Roy turned and slowly mounted to the wireless house. At every step his
heart grew heavier and heavier.

“A nice mess I’ve made of it,” he sighed, when at last he reached the
wireless house and threw himself down on his couch. “I’ll never make
good with the captain now, never.”




CHAPTER V A FRIEND IN NEED


It was characteristic of Roy that he did not spend much time bewailing
his misfortune. “If the captain objects to my looks now,” thought he,
“how will he feel to-morrow, when that black eye becomes the real
thing! Gee! I’ve got to do something quick. Let me see. It ought to
be bathed in warm water and rubbed with butter or some other kind of
grease. I can get warm water here in my room, but I don’t know where to
get butter. Maybe the cook would give me some.”

Roy jumped to his feet and started down the ladder. “Gee whiz!” he
muttered. “I wonder where the cook is?” For the _Lycoming_ was still a
mystery to Roy.

He went down to a lower deck, then stood irresolute. Not a soul was in
sight, the ship was dimly lighted, and Roy did not know which way to
turn. Suddenly the door of the purser’s office was flung open and a
flood of yellow light streamed out. Roy stepped quickly to the door
and knocked against the jamb.

“Come in,” said a hearty voice, which Roy was certain he had heard
before.

Roy entered and found himself face to face with the man whose letter he
had rescued. He was so surprised that for an instant he couldn’t say a
word.

“Hello, youngster,” said the man, as he took a quick glance at Roy.
“Glad to see you. Come in. Just let me finish this manifest and I’ll
talk to you all night.” But when he took a second look at Roy, he
dropped the sheaf of papers he was examining and stepped forward.

“Now how the deuce did you get that?” he exclaimed, as he examined
Roy’s eye.

As Roy started to tell him he interrupted, “Never mind how you got it.
Let’s get it fixed first and talk about it afterward. Come with me,
youngster.”

He darted out of his office and into his stateroom, with Roy close
at his heels. Seemingly with one motion he set the hot water flowing
in his wash-bowl and drew from a closet a bottle of vaseline. Almost
before Roy knew what was happening, the man had him in a chair with a
stinging hot compress over his eye, and another ready for application
when the first one cooled. The man’s dexterity amazed Roy, who was
anything but clumsy himself. When the compresses had done their work,
the man began to rub the injured flesh about the bruised eye with
vaseline. Round and round his fingers went, softly but firmly pressing
the flesh, until Roy wondered if the man would ever stop. Finally the
massage ended and a poultice was quickly made and deftly applied.

“There,” said the man, stepping back and viewing his job critically.
“You’re fixed up as good as any ambulance surgeon could have fixed you.
Now let’s hear how you got that decoration.”

“First, let me thank you for your help,” said Roy gratefully. “I’ll
look bad enough as it is, but I’d have looked a thousand times worse
if you hadn’t helped me. I wouldn’t care so much if the captain hadn’t
seen me.”

“Did he, though? And what did he say?”

“He accused me of being drunk, and when I tried to explain how I came
by a black eye, he told me not to make it worse by lying.”

Roy’s companion chuckled. “What did you tell him?” he demanded.

“I told him he had no right to accuse me of either. He nearly took
my head off, and demanded to know if I questioned his authority on
his own ship. I told him I didn’t care whether he was captain of the
_Lycoming_ or President of the United States, I was neither drunk nor a
liar and that he had no right to accuse me of being either.”

Roy’s companion slapped his leg in huge delight. “Boy,” he said,
“you’re made with Captain Lansford. You couldn’t have done anything
that would please him more. He loves courage and there are mighty few
people who have enough of it to stand up to him.”

Roy looked rueful. “He’ll never forgive me,” he said. “You should have
heard him order me to my quarters.”

But Roy’s companion only chuckled. “Now tell me all about your eye,” he
said.

Roy told him how he came by it. Then he added, “I suppose you are
the purser, and I’m mighty glad. I don’t know how I can ever show my
gratitude for your kindness, but I thank you with all my heart. My name
is Roy Mercer.”

“Thank you, lad. Thank you,” said the purser. “It’s always a pleasure
to help a good boy like yourself. My name is Robbins, Frank Robbins,
and I _am_ the purser. I foresee that we shall be very good friends.”

“I hope so,” said Roy. “It won’t be my fault if we aren’t. Won’t you
come up and see my wireless room? And, by the way, I’ve got some
crullers my mother gave me. You must try them.”

“God bless the lad!” ejaculated the purser. “Crullers--the kind that
mother used to make--the real thing--and he wants to share them. To be
sure, I’ll come. But let me finish that manifest first. Work before
play is the motto on this ship.”

“I’d bet on that,” thought Roy, “if Captain Lansford had anything to do
with it.”

The purser went to his office and Roy to the wireless house. But what
a different lad he was from the Roy who had left it so short a time
before. He had found a friend in need; and a friend in need is a friend
indeed. Now his eyes were aglow and his heart beat merrily. He looked
at his shining instruments as a mother views her child. Sitting down at
the operating table, he adjusted his receivers to his head and threw
over the switch.

A babel of sound smote his ears. It was after nine o’clock, and at
that hour of the night the air in Manhattan was as noisy as Broadway
during the rush hour. Everybody was talking at once, including no end
of irresponsible amateurs, many of whom could send but not read. When
they jammed, no one could tell them what trouble they were making
for everybody else. Roy could hear big stations and little talking
to one another through hundreds of miles of space. Stations far to
the northward were talking directly over Roy’s head, as it were, with
stations as far to the southward. Inland operators were conversing
with shore stations, and ocean liners were exchanging messages with
operators on land. It was as noisy as a five o’clock tea.

Though it was all familiar to Roy, it was as interesting to him as if
he were hearing it for the first time. High above the multitude of
buzzing sounds rose the shrill whine of the Brooklyn Navy Yard’s rotary
spark-gap. Always Roy delighted to listen to the clean, clear work of
the Navy Yard operators. Now he tuned sharply and listened.

“NAK--NAK--NAK--NAH,” called the navy operator. (Annapolis-Brooklyn
Navy Yard calling.)

“NAH--III--GA,” came the reply almost at once. (Navy Yard. I’m here. Go
ahead.)

Roy made a wry face as he took down the message that followed. It was
in cipher and he could not read it.

But there was plenty that he could read. The radio station on the
Metropolitan tower was shrilly shouting its news to the world. The
navy station at Fire Island was talking with a destroyer at sea. Cape
May was trying to get some ship far out in the Atlantic. The _New York
Herald_ was talking with a ship coming into Boston. Far out at sea
the White Star liner _Majestic_ was inquiring whether the Giants or
Cincinnati had won the day’s ball game. The Hotel Waldorf was sending a
message for a guest to Philadelphia.

Suddenly Roy started violently. His own call was sounding through the
air: “WNA--WNA--WNA--WNG.”

It was the _Tioga_ calling her sister ship _Lycoming_.

“WNG--III--GA,” flashed back Roy the instant the call ended.

“Hello,” came the answer. “This is Patterson. Who are you?”

“This is Mercer,” answered Roy.

“Glad to know you,” flashed back the operator on the _Tioga_. “Where
you from?”

“This is my first job,” said Roy.

“Well, you’re right on the job and you send well.”

“Thanks,” answered Roy. “Come see me. When do you expect to get in?”

“Tuesday evening. Take a message for Lansford.”

Roy took down the message and said good-night to Patterson. He made a
grimace at the thought of again facing “the old dragon,” as he mentally
styled his superior. But before he could lay aside his receivers he
heard Arlington preparing to send out the ten o’clock time signal and
the day’s weather news.

“I’ll just take the weather-report,” he thought, as he set his watch,
“and give it to Captain Lansford along with this message.”

Then the weather signals sounded. Rapidly Roy jotted them down: “USWB-T
02813--DB 04221--H 03622--C 03042--K 00223--P 03347.” (Wind off
Atlantic Coast--north of Sandy Hook moderate northerly winds with fair
weather--Hatteras to Florida Straits moderate northerly and easterly
winds. Moderate showers Tuesday east Gulf Coast. Fresh to moderately
strong winds over north portion with rain--moderate northeast and east
winds over south portion.)

Rapidly Roy deciphered the code and wrote down the despatch, as
follows: Nantucket--barometer 30.28, wind north, gentle breeze.
Delaware Breakwater--barometer 30.42, wind northeast, light air.
Cape Hatteras--barometer 30.36, wind northeast, light breeze.
Key West--barometer 30.02, wind northeast, gentle breeze.
Pensacola--barometer 30.33, wind southeast, moderate gale.

Carefully Roy wrote out the message from the _Tioga_, and signed it
with the _Tioga_ captain’s name, making sure that every word was
written plainly and spelled correctly. “I won’t give him a chance to
criticize me,” he muttered.

Then, after a moment’s consideration, he wrote: “The United States
Weather Bureau reports the following weather conditions.” And he copied
down the deciphered message and signed his name: “Mercer.”

It was the first time Roy had ever signed his name as a professional
operator and he thrilled with pride as he looked at the neatly penned
message with his own signature at the bottom.

But immediately the smile of satisfaction was succeeded by a sour look.
At that instant his door opened and the purser walked in.

“Why so glum?” he demanded. “Worrying about your shiner?”

“No,” said Roy. “I was thinking how much fun it will be to take this
message to Captain Lansford.”

“Now see here, lad,” exploded the purser. “You’re not going to take it.
Don’t forget you’re not a cabin-boy, but remember that you rank with
the officers. And, anyway, it will be just as well to keep away from
the captain for a time. He’s used to having everybody kotow to him.
Just show him you are independent. He won’t think any the worse of you
for it.”

“Come to think of it,” said Roy, “his orders were to go to the wireless
house and not to bother him.”

“Just push this button when you want a steward,” said the purser,
putting his finger on a push-button in the wall that Roy had not
previously noticed.

In a few moments a gray-haired negro appeared at the door.

“Sam,” said the purser, “this is Mr. Mercer, our new wireless man. He’s
a particular friend of mine and I want you to look after him as a favor
to me. Besides, you want to gain his friendship yourself. You can never
tell when you may need his help. He talks to other ships and to folks
ashore, with these instruments here. If we get into trouble at sea he
can summon help, even if we are five hundred miles out in the ocean.”

The darky’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “I done heerd o’ dis yere
wireless telefagry, Massa Robbins,” he said, “but I ain’t never seen
none before. Can he really call help like dat?”

“Indeed he can, Sam, and if we need a policeman, he can get one quick.”

The steward looked at Roy with awe. Roy rose and shook hands with him.
“I hope you are going to be my friend, Sam,” he said cordially.

“’Deed I is, Mr. Mercer. ’Deed I is, suh,” and he bowed himself out
with Roy’s message for the captain.

Roy grinned at the purser. “Sounds funny to have him call me Mr.
Mercer,” he said. “I suppose he’ll get over it when he knows me better.”

“You’ll never be anything but Mr. Mercer on shipboard,” explained the
purser. “As wireless man, you are entitled to be called Mr. Mercer, and
we are particular about such things. But I’m going to call you Roy when
we’re alone, if you don’t mind.”

With a smile Roy laid aside his wireless instruments and produced his
package of crullers.

“We must have something to drink with these,” said the purser, and he
pressed the button again.

Roy looked at him inquiringly.

“I never touch anything stronger than coffee,” said the purser, “and if
you take my advice, you won’t, either.”

“I never touched a drop of liquor in my life,” said Roy, “and I’m not
going to now.”

“I thought not,” said the purser. “That’s one reason I mean to be your
friend. Boys who drink aren’t worth bothering with.”

Presently Sam answered the bell and brought them a pot of steaming
hot coffee. For a long time Roy and the purser sat talking; they ate
crullers and drank coffee. When Mr. Robbins said good-night, Roy was
very happy indeed. He felt that he had gained a real friend, who would
help him in difficulty. And, though he did not know it, there were many
difficulties ahead of him.




CHAPTER VI OFF TO SEA


Thanks to the purser’s kind and skilful ministrations, Roy’s eye
was not long in returning to an almost normal appearance. But Roy
had little time to worry over his looks. As the time for sailing
approached, he was busy day and night. There were a multitude of
unusual details connected with the maiden voyage of the _Lycoming_ that
entailed endless messages. The ship’s owners were continually sending
important communications. Commanders of other Confederated liners
sent congratulations to the _Lycoming’s_ commander. Shipping agents
and commercial houses fairly bombarded Captain Lansford with wireless
communications. Finally passengers began to arrive and messages were
sent to and by them.

Even Roy, ignorant as he still was of matters nautical and commercial,
could see that things were not going right. The ship still had to be
coaled, and the coal barges were badly delayed in arriving. Certain
big freight shipments, which it was imperative for the _Lycoming_
to carry, were held back by the congested condition of the railways.
The first of these shipments began to arrive about the time the last
should have been safely stowed in the hold. Captain Lansford was
plainly disturbed. He grew sharper and sharper tempered. He drove the
stevedores at an incredible pace. He made the coal-passers work at a
speed past belief. But the thing that seemed to annoy him most was the
continual stream of wireless messages. Every succeeding communication
seemed to put a sharper edge to his temper. From the first officer
down to the humblest coal-passer, every member of the crew was on the
alert. At the least word from Captain Lansford they jumped to execute
his command. Despite the innumerable delays and obstacles, it looked as
though the ship would sail on time.

When Roy had said to himself that his job was to help keep the ship
safe and on the dot, he meant it. By the terms of his employment he
was required to be at his post at certain hours and to listen in at
certain intervals. But Roy saw that already opportunity had come to
him to be of real help to his captain. An hour’s delay in some of the
messages that were arriving, he quickly saw, would make a great deal
of difference to Captain Lansford and the sailing of the ship. So Roy
threw aside all idea of working during prescribed hours only and stuck
to his post. Indeed, he hardly left the wireless house, even for meals.
Sam, the steward, was as anxious to win Roy’s good-will as Roy was to
gain the captain’s, and he saw to it that Roy did not lack good things
to eat or drink. It was hard to be confined so closely. And when there
was so much near at hand that he wanted to see, it took real courage
to force himself to stay in the wireless house. But Roy put aside his
desire for sightseeing, sent and received his messages promptly, and
made sure that communications for Captain Lansford were always put into
the commander’s hands immediately. Especially was Roy particular to
spell his words correctly, write them plainly, and get all his figures
correct.

The purser had arranged to have a cabin-boy deliver the captain’s
messages, and Roy was glad enough that he did not have to face Captain
Lansford. As for the latter, he gave no sign that he either understood
or appreciated the service Roy was rendering him. On the contrary, he
lost no opportunity to condemn the innovation that had been forced on
him. The cabin-boy, who disliked the task assigned to him, repeated to
Roy all the harsh things that Captain Lansford said to him. But Roy
only screwed his lips together a little tighter and stuck to his job.
It was the only way he knew of to make good.

As the hour for sailing approached, the activities on the pier were
past describing. Roy had thought the stevedores worked fast when he saw
them. If he could have watched them now he would hardly have believed
his eyes. Hour after hour, in unending streams they rushed down the
gangplanks with their enormous loads. Drays came and went. Drivers
swore frantically at their horses and at one another. Motors honked
and roared. Boxes and bales crashed to the floor of the pier shed with
resounding thumps. The little hand-trucks rattled incessantly over the
uneven planking. Donkey-engines and steam-winches clanked and shrieked,
and the derricks groaned and creaked as load after load was hoisted
aboard. Every hand that could be employed in loading was working at top
speed. The scene would have delighted Roy. But, like the coal-passers,
the stevedores, the truckmen, the crew, and everybody else about the
ship, he, too, was working at top speed. It seemed as though each one
of the scores of men who were toiling about the ship was determined
that the ship should sail on time, cost what it might. A very frenzy
seemed to have taken possession of all these toilers. Something had
gotten into them, some spirit that made it seem more important to get
the _Lycoming_ off on time than to do anything else in the world. Like
everybody else aboard, Roy was too busy to think about the thing or
even to comprehend that a miracle was taking place under his very nose.

Yet a miracle it was. For a few minutes before the hour for sailing
arrived, the final bale of freight was stowed in the hold, some of
the hatches were battened down, and the gangplanks drawn ashore. The
_Lycoming_ would sail on time.

With a frightful shriek of her great whistle, the huge ship gradually
moved astern, sliding slowly out of its dock into the broad Hudson,
where boats were crossing and recrossing and passing up and down like
shuttles in a loom. The air was vibrant with their shrill, incessant
tootings. Ponderously the huge craft, pushed by snorting little
tugs, turned its nose down-stream, headed for the open sea, and with
quickening speed majestically slid through the tossing waters, with
Captain Lansford, erect as a pine and as motionless, watching like an
eagle on the bridge.

Roy had lost none of his dislike for this harsh-tempered commander. But
when he saw him standing thus at his post, like a veritable Gibraltar,
Roy gained a new conception of the man’s character. Suddenly there
came to him an appreciation of the fact that Captain Lansford alone
had made it possible to sail on time. Men, whom money would not budge,
had worked like mad at his mere command. Obstacles that were seemingly
insurmountable had been overcome. Work that was apparently impossible
had been accomplished. Roy did not understand it at all, yet he began
to realize that there was something in his commander that rose superior
to obstacles and carried his fellows with him. Instinctively Roy felt
safer because of that silent, immovable figure on the bridge.

“But it makes it all the tougher for me,” he thought. “He’s got it in
for me, and I know he’ll never forgive me for talking to him as I did.”

Now that the pressure was relaxed, Roy was too busy seeing things to
worry about the matter, for the _Lycoming_ was fast picking up speed.

“Toot! Toot! Toot!” went the _Lycoming’s_ whistle, as one vessel after
another saluted the new craft. “Toot!” it shrieked; “Toot! Toot!” as
approaching craft indicated that they would pass to right or left.

Now far out from the shore, the ship had left behind her the roar of
the water-front. Gone were the stench and dust of the streets, and the
noise of traffic. Hidden from sight were the sordid and ugly features
of the city. The great buildings seemed like dream structures. A fairy
city, indeed, appeared the great American metropolis as it shone in the
summer sun. To Roy it was fairer than any city he had ever seen.

Shortly the ship was passing Bedloe’s Island, with its towering statue
of Liberty. Never had Roy been so close to the giant goddess. Always
his heart thrilled at the sight of this emblem of Democracy. He was
still a boy, but he was beginning to understand what is meant by that
word Democracy. It meant opportunity to climb up, to get ahead, even as
he was now starting to do; and Roy resolved that he would let nothing,
absolutely nothing, stand between him and duty. For, as he looked at
that immovable figure on the bridge, Roy realized more keenly than ever
that if anything at all could help him to make good with his captain,
it would be through doing his duty--just his plain, every-day duty as
it came to him.

Soon the statue of Liberty was far to the rear. Past Robbin’s Reef
light, past quarantine, through the Narrows, past the forts on either
side that dominate the narrow neck of water, and on into the lower bay,
sped the _Lycoming_. Ahead loomed Hoffman’s and Swinburne’s Islands,
the latter with its imposing hospital buildings, where quarantined
immigrants are treated. On the right, ever receding, were the low-lying
shores of New Jersey. Far to the left lay Coney Island, Manhattan
Beach, Rockaway, and other famous pleasure resorts on the south shore
of Long Island. While straight ahead rolled the illimitable ocean, the
goal of Roy’s desire.

Presently Roy heard a step on the iron ladder leading to his perch and
a moment later the purser joined him.

“Now,” said that individual, with a sigh, “we can let down a bit. When
it comes to being a slave-driver neither Pharaoh nor Simon Legree had
anything on Captain Lansford. But he got us off on time, didn’t he?”
And the purser chuckled as though all his hard work of the past few
days was a good joke.

On the right the Atlantic Highlands were looming up, and the purser,
who had a powerful glass in his hand, pointed out to Roy the
range-lights that help to guide the mariner in the dark. Soon the
_Lycoming_ was off Sandy Hook, that low-lying finger of sand, with its
fort and a lighthouse at the very tip.

“Ever read Cooper’s _Water Witch_?” asked the purser, and Roy nodded,
“Yes.”

“Then you’ll remember that famous little craft used to elude her
pursuers by sailing into Sandy Hook Bay there--the body of water
enclosed by the Hook--and slipping out to sea through a break in the
Hook itself.”

“Was that the place?” asked Roy, all interest.

“That’s it, all right, but the break in the Hook has long since filled
up and Uncle Sam now has a little railway that runs along that narrow
neck of sand out to the proving-grounds. You know some of the big guns
for the army are tested here. If you look carefully, you will see that
the little neck of sand is protected on the ocean side by pilings and
rocks. Otherwise a heavy storm would wash the sand away and Sandy Hook
would soon be an island.”

Roy saw that the shore-line for miles was protected by a heavy sheeting
of piling and planks.

“It needs to be well protected,” said the purser, when Roy drew his
attention to the fact. “You will notice that there is an almost
unbroken row of houses for miles along the ocean front. The land is
nothing but sand and is very low. If it weren’t for the protection of
these pilings, storms would soon eat the sand away and the houses would
topple into the sea. In fact, it isn’t very long since a big storm did
get a number of them.”

“It doesn’t seem possible that such a thing could happen,” said Roy.

“When you’ve seen one or two rough storms and have watched the waves
crashing over the _Lycoming’s_ decks, you’ll have a different idea of
the power of the ocean.”

“What?” said Roy. “Do the waves ever sweep over the deck?”

“Well, I guess,” said the purser. “Just now the sea is as calm as a
mill-pond, but let the wind blow a little and you’ll see what a fuss it
will kick up.”

“But,” protested Roy, “the deck is many feet above the water-line.
Surely the waves don’t get so high as that.”

“A good deal higher, youngster. They’ll roll up close to thirty feet in
a good storm, and that’s as high as the average house or higher. Wait
till you see some of those huge combers come crashing down on the deck
and you won’t wonder that they have to fortify the coast along here.
There isn’t a thing between here and Europe to stop the waves, once
they get to rolling.”

Roy whistled in amazement and took another look at the ocean.

The _Lycoming_ was now fairly at sea. In quick succession she passed
a string of towns so grown together that there appeared to be but one
long community. These were the numerous summer resorts that occupy
the narrow strip of land between the Navesink River and the Atlantic
Ocean. With the purser’s strong glass Roy could see from his high perch
the crowds of bathers on the long beach and motor-cars speeding along
the smooth boulevard that runs for many miles close to the shore-line.
As darkness came on, the shore faded from sight. But in its place
innumerable twinkling lights sprang into being, stretching in unbroken
lines, like great strings of glowing jewels, for miles and miles up and
down the coast, with brighter clusters here and there like pendants, to
mark the hearts of the numerous towns.

From his high post atop the ship, Roy commanded an unobstructed view
for miles in every direction. And in every direction lights twinkled.
Ashore, millions of lights shone steadily like huge glowworms. The twin
headlights of automobiles, like giant, fiery eyes, turned this way
or that and darted through the darkness. Search-lights pointed their
long beams toward heaven, where they swung, now here, now there, like
enormous pencils of light writing on the firmament. As far as he could
see, the coast-line was pricked out in innumerable lights.

Seaward shone the lamps of occasional ships. In places single,
low-lying, bright eyes in the dark betokened the presence of small
sailing ships with lights in their rigging. Lanterns gleamed aboard
belated fishing ships, as they made for the great metropolis with their
cargoes of sea food. And beyond them, but drawing steadily nearer, a
moving mass of lights indicated the presence and approach of a great
ocean liner.

Roy had only to turn his eyes heavenward to see the faithful
watch-lights that God so long ago placed in the heavens, and that are
still shining undimmed to guide the footsteps of those who struggle
upward--even as Roy was doing. Something of this he felt as he stood
in silent wonder, charmed by the myriad lights ashore, fascinated by
the bobbing gleams at sea, with their hint of mystery and romance. The
sea! What things it had witnessed! What tragedies it had seen! What
adventures had occurred on its heaving bosom! What acts of heroism had
taken place on its broad expanse!

Duty called Roy to the wireless house, for the early part of the night
was his busy hour afloat. As he turned his back on the panorama of
lights and went to his post, he wondered what the sea would bring to
him. Hitherto he had thought little about the dangerous side of life at
sea. Now he began to grasp the possibilities of tragedy, to understand
that not all of those who go down to the sea in ships return safely.
As he looked out over the vast void and up into the unfathomable
firmament, he felt again that sense of littleness and insignificance
that had overwhelmed him upon his arrival in New York. But somehow
there was a difference. The stars did not terrify him as his callous
fellow beings had done. A sense of awe rather than fear gripped him.
Long he looked at the silent stars, so calm, so imperturbable, and
though it seemed ridiculous to compare his commander to one of God’s
stars, he could not help thinking of that calm, immovable figure he had
last seen on the bridge. Whether the night was fair, as it was now, or
the tempest raged and the wave-crests hurled themselves upon the ship,
Roy felt sure that his commander would be at his post, unterrified.
With a prayer that he, too, might be found at his post, unterrified,
doing his duty calmly when the pinch came, Roy took a final look at the
stars, slipped into the wireless house, and sat down at his operating
table, ready for the night’s work.




CHAPTER VII THE NIGHT’S WORK


Roy adjusted his receivers, threw over his switch, and listened in.
A grin came over his face. The air was as noisy as the old football
field at home when Central City was winning. Everybody was yelling
through space at somebody else. It was one terrific babel of wireless
voices. It seemed to Roy as though everybody within three hundred miles
who had a radio instrument was using it. But through all the racket
he could plainly distinguish the whining call of the Brooklyn Navy
Yard. There was no mistaking that station. Roy tuned in and caught the
message. It was an order for a torpedo-boat destroyer to start from
Newport News next day for Brooklyn for an overhauling in the dry dock.
Then Roy shifted to a commercial wave-length and caught a message from
the incoming liner _Kroonland_, asking the police boat to meet her
at quarantine to take off a card shark who had been caught fleecing
fellow-passengers. The Clyde liner _Iroquois_ was announcing to her
owners her probable hour of arrival from San Domingo. The signals came
so sharp and clear that Roy felt certain they were sent from the
steamer he had noticed earlier in the evening, which was now almost
abreast of them.

Night after night he had listened to wireless operators chatting to
each other through the air, exchanging gossip and friendly messages.
He hoped it would not be long before he became acquainted with some
of his fellow operators so that he, too, could join in the evening
gossip. But Roy was reluctant to start a conversation with a stranger.
He feared he might be thought “fresh.” Now, as he looked out of a
window at the glowing ship so near at hand, he suddenly decided to talk
with her, and see if she were the _Iroquois_. In a minute he had found
the _Iroquois_’ call in his wireless directory, and the minute the
_Iroquois_ stopped talking he pressed his key.

“KVF--KVF--KVF--WNA,” sounded his signal, as the blue sparks leaped in
his instrument.

Almost immediately came the reply, “WNA--III--GA.”

“Where are you, _Iroquois_?” asked Roy.

“Off the Jersey coast,” came the answer, “about opposite Barnegat.”

“Is there a steamer between you and shore?” flashed back Roy.

“Yes. What of it? Who wants to know?”

“That’s us,” flashed back Roy, “the _Lycoming_.”

“Never heard of you. Are you a tramp? Where from?”

“No. New Confederated liner--maiden voyage New York to Galveston. Roy
Mercer, operator--just wanted to say howdy-do.”

“Congratulations and thanks,” came the reply. “First job?”

“Very first.”

“Good luck. How did the Giants make out to-day?”

“Haven’t heard,” said Roy.

“Good-bye, old top. My name’s Graham. Call me up again.” And the
_Iroquois_ passed on, while Roy got his messages ready for transmittal.

There were not many of these. The captain had filed a final report for
the owners: a Wall Street broker ordered the sale of a thousand shares
of United States Steel if the market rose. A salesman from Toledo
wanted his firm to inform him when he could guarantee delivery of some
machinery he had sold. And the usual number of pleasure-seekers were
sending messages to their homes, announcing their departure from New
York. Roy sent off the captain’s communication first, then quickly got
rid of his commercial messages. For a long time he sat at his table,
listening to the interesting messages that were pulsating through the
nocturnal air. He felt sure that as long as he lived he could never
grow tired of listening to these interesting voices of the night.

When ten o’clock approached, he tuned to the Arlington wave-length
and waited to catch the time and weather signals. Later still, he
listened in for the daily news-letter sent out each night by the
Marconi Company, for publication next day in the marine newspapers that
wireless telegraphy had made possible on shipboard. The _Lycoming_
had not subscribed to this service and it was not permissible for
Roy to give out the news. But there was nothing to prevent him from
picking it out of the air for his own information, or from giving it
to the captain. In fact, the Marconi Company rather expected this
as a courtesy to captains on ships using their service. So Roy was
particular to take every word of the eight-hundred-word news-letter
that was flashed forth to the world late that night.

The German peace delegates had handed their reply, containing counter
proposals, to the secretariat of the peace commission. The despatch
gave the main points in the hundred-and-forty-six-page answer of the
Germans. A troop call had been issued in Toronto in readiness for the
pending strike of workers. A new rebellion was anticipated in Ireland.
Captain Andre Tardieu had made a remarkable appeal to ten thousand
soldiers of the American Expeditionary Force for a closer union between
France and America. The baseball scores were given and Roy was pleased
to learn that the Giants had beaten Brooklyn five to two and increased
their lead. Hereafter he would be a Giant fan. He wondered if Graham,
on the _Iroquois_, had caught the news and was almost tempted to call
him up. There was a brief résumé of stock market conditions. But what
interested Roy most was the announcement that the NC-4 would make its
last lap next day from Lisbon to London.

Roy had often picked these nightly news reports from the air, but
never before had they meant to him what this message meant now. Always
before, he had been on land and had read in the evening papers much of
the news included in the nightly news-letter. Now he was at sea. Every
hour carried the _Lycoming_ farther from shore. By morning, perhaps,
she would be out of sight of land. Already Roy was beginning to feel
that sense of isolation, of loneness, that comes to first voyagers
on the sea. When he thought of all the ships that had gone down and
all the people who had perished when help was really but a few hours
distant, he thrilled anew at the thought that he could talk to other
ships, even if they were hundreds of miles away, and so get help or
bring help. With this thought came a new sense of the importance of his
post. Truly his was a vital share in sailing the ship. It called for
the best there was in him.

By the time he had copied the weather-report and the news-letter,
it was so late he thought the captain was probably asleep. Every
night since Roy came aboard, he had sent the weather-report to
Captain Lansford as soon as he had received it. The captain had never
acknowledged the receipt of these messages nor indicated that he was
pleased to have them. Yet Roy thought the commander ought to know about
the weather. He was in a quandary. Should he risk the wrath of the
captain by taking the message to him, or should he wait until morning
and send it? Roy thought the matter over.

“I’m going to take it to him,” he said, finally. “He ought to have this
report and I’ll see that he gets it, no matter what happens.”

He picked up the sheet of paper, skipped down the ladder, and presently
found himself before the door of the captain’s cabin. His rather
hesitating knock was greeted by a gruff voice from within.

“What do you want?”

“This is the wireless man with the weather-report and the night’s news,
Captain,” replied Roy.

An angry exclamation was Roy’s answer. The door was flung open, and the
captain, in his pajamas, stood in the doorway, boiling with wrath.

“Weather-report!” he bellowed contemptuously. “Weather-report! What
do I want of your weather-reports? Don’t you know better than to
come battering at my door in the middle of the night? I left word
that I should not be disturbed, and here you come bothering me with
weather-reports. I’ll have obedience on shipboard, sir, or I’ll put you
in irons. Now get out. And don’t you ever bother me again with your
weather-reports.”

“But, Captain Lansford,” objected Roy, “I thought you might want
to know the news, and I have the day’s news-letter as well as the
weather-report. I did not know that you were asleep or that you had
left orders not to be disturbed. I am sorry, sir. I only wished to be
of use, not to annoy you.”

“Bah! More of your wireless nonsense!” roared the captain, and he
banged his door shut. Yet he snatched Roy’s papers, weather-report and
all, before he did so.

Roy turned back toward the wireless house, but his encounter with
the captain had driven every vestige of sleepiness from his eyes.
He decided that he would look about the ship a bit. It was cool and
pleasant and there were no passengers to bother him. It was against
the rules for passengers to visit the wireless house, but already
several had asked Roy for permission to do so. Roy hardly knew how to
refuse such a request without seeming rude, so he was glad to avoid
passengers. He walked aft and for a while stood looking over the
taffrail at the foaming trail the _Lycoming_ left behind her. Then he
went forward and looked ahead. There was no moon, but the stars shone
clear and it was surprisingly light. The smallest object would have
been visible on the water at a considerable distance. In the very nose
of the boat was a sailor on watch. The man stood so motionless and
leaned so snugly against the bow that Roy was not at first certain the
figure was a man. He was tempted to go talk with him, but remembered
in time that it is forbidden to converse with the men on watch. So he
leaned over the rail and quietly watched the huge bow wave. He was
close to the ladder that leads to the bridge.

Suddenly a voice, very low, but clear and distinct, said, “Come up
here, Mr. Mercer.”

Roy looked up and saw Mr. Young, the first officer, standing above him
on the bridge. Quickly he scrambled up the ladder and found himself
beside the man in command of the _Lycoming_. Roy knew that passengers
were forbidden on the bridge, and was fearful lest he might be
trespassing himself. But Mr. Young soon dispelled his fears.

“As wireless man,” he said, “you have a perfect right to come on the
bridge, though it might be as well not to do so when the captain is
here. You know he has some peculiar ideas.”

Mr. Young smiled, yet there was nothing unkind in his smile. Like the
purser, the first mate seemed to have some feeling of kindness toward
his superior. Roy wondered at it. He did not see how anybody could
feel kindly toward such a gruff old dragon. He was the more surprised
because Mr. Young, like Purser Robbins, was the very soul of good
nature. Roy had been attracted to him from the start, for Mr. Young
had made an evident effort to put Roy at his ease. Now he felt more
grateful than ever to this great, blond giant. For Mr. Young was even
larger than Captain Lansford.

Quietly the two conversed in the starlight, though Mr. Young never
took his eyes from the water before them. Occasionally he spoke a
word to the steersman behind him in the wheel-house. He asked Roy
many questions about his life and seemed interested in him. Roy was
immensely pleased when Mr. Young remarked that he was glad the ship
was equipped with wireless and that Roy was the operator. And Roy was
astonished beyond belief when Mr. Young told him that he had sailed as
first mate to Captain Lansford for fifteen years. Roy did not see how
anybody who could possibly get another post would willingly serve with
Captain Lansford. When he said as much to Mr. Young that officer smiled.

“Wait until you know Captain Lansford a little better,” said Mr. Young,
“and you may think differently.” But Roy was sure that nothing could
ever change his mind about Captain Lansford. His most fervent wish
was to do his work satisfactorily for the next three months and get a
transfer to some other vessel.

It was after midnight when Roy sought his bunk. But first he went to
his instrument and listened in for several minutes. If the sea was as
calm elsewhere as it was about the _Lycoming_, he did not believe any
ship could be in distress--unless it might be from fire. Always, since
he had watched the flames on that Brooklyn pier, he was thinking about
fire at sea. If any vessel needed help, he did not intend that it
should lack assistance through negligence on his part.

When finally Roy retired, he was weary enough. Yet for a long time he
could not sleep. The unaccustomed throbbing of the great engines, the
vibration of the ship, and the unfamiliar movement as the vessel rode
the long, smooth swells, kept Roy awake for a long time. Finally he did
sleep, but presently dreamed that Captain Lansford was a real dragon
and was about to drown him. Roy awoke with a cry of terror and found
that his coat had slipped from its peg and fallen across his face. In
another minute he was fast asleep again, and this time he slumbered
soundly until six bells in the morning watch, when the striking of the
ship’s bell awoke him.

Day after day the weather continued fair and the sea calm. Even off
Cape Hatteras, most famed of weather-breeders, the sky was like
turquoise and the sea like glass. On the second day out Roy was
delighted to discover a school of porpoises off the port bow. He had
never seen porpoises before, but had often read about these huge
playful fish-like creatures; and when he saw them leaping out of the
water, one after another, like so many runners clearing hurdles, he
knew at once what they were. To his delight they came close to the
ship, and for a long time swam ahead of it, as though towing the great
vessel. Roy knew that the _Lycoming_ was making at least fifteen knots
an hour or better than a mile in four minutes. Yet these big creatures
kept pace with her with no apparent effort; and when finally they swam
off, they darted away from the _Lycoming_ as though she were anchored.

“Whew!” whistled Roy. “If we’re going fifteen knots an hour, how fast
are those fellows moving now?”

As the steamer drew into southern waters, the gray-green color of the
ocean took on a bluish tint. Long before the ship entered the Gulf of
Mexico the water was of the most beautiful deep blue, the color being
emphasized by little whitecaps. Along the Florida coast the steamer
drew so close to shore that Roy could distinctly see the wide beaches,
with their crowds of bathers and the many automobiles rushing over the
smooth sands. Distinctly he could make out palm-trees and other growths
new and wonderful to him. Often he watched the water in the hope that
he might discover a manatee, but those strange animals frequent shallow
waters and Roy saw none of them.

On the way down the coast there was little for Roy to do. Occasional
messages came for the captain; passengers sent messages infrequently;
and Roy regularly caught the weather signals and picked from the air
the nightly news-letter as long as his instruments could catch the
ever fainter pulsations in the ether. These he continued to send to
the captain by messenger. Before the journey ended, the _Lycoming_ had
passed out of range of the transmitting instrument. After that Roy had
only the weather-report to send.

The first time this occurred, the captain’s steward appeared at the
wireless house and soon struck up a conversation with Roy. Casually
he asked for the daily news-letter. Roy guessed that he had been sent
by the captain expressly for this news-letter. But if that were true,
the captain gave no evidence of the fact. He continued to ignore Roy
and gave no indication of any interest in Roy’s work. To all outward
appearances he was merely tolerating Roy’s presence on board because he
was compelled to do so. And Roy could see no way to gain the captain’s
favor.

After a quick and uneventful run across the Gulf, the Texas coast was
sighted, and five days after leaving New York the _Lycoming_ was off
the port of Galveston.




CHAPTER VIII WHERE COTTON IS KING


Like Mount Zion, this great seaport was beautiful for situation.
Located on the eastern tip of an island some thirty miles long, that
lay not far off the mainland and parallel with it, the little city sat
snugly between the Galveston Bay on the north and the swelling waters
of the Gulf on the south. Barren stretches of sand girt the city on the
west, while farther along the coast of the island rose some mound-like
structures above which flew the American flag. Roy had already learned
that this was Fort Crockett. But of the city before him he knew
practically nothing.

After standing straight in toward land for a considerable distance, the
ship turned to port and, like a match about to pass a sawlog, steamed
directly toward the island, but slightly to the right or north of it.
It was mid-forenoon and there was no wireless work for Roy to do at
the time. He came out of the wireless house and stood on the upper
deck, so as to obtain an unobstructed view. Captain Lansford was again
on the bridge. On the lower decks passengers were saying good-bye to
one another, and making all the preparations necessary for departure.
Stewards were bustling about, looking after baggage, helping passengers
with their slight wraps and hand luggage, and performing a multitude
of other acts designed in part to be helpful, but meant mostly to draw
forth generous tips from grateful travelers. Much of this was hidden
from Roy. But he could see enough of it to understand what was afoot.
He was glad he was by himself, where he did not have to watch it. The
very idea of seeking and taking tips was repugnant to him.

He paid slight heed to what was going on below him, however, for there
was so much to see elsewhere that he was soon deeply engrossed in the
scene before him. So deeply did he become interested that he even
failed to hear a footstep on the ladder and was not conscious that any
one had mounted to his deck until a voice sounded close to his ear.
Roy turned about with a start, then smiled a welcome. It was the chief
engineer whose duties, like Roy’s, were about ended for the journey.

“Good-morning, Mr. Anderson,” smiled Roy. “I’m glad to see you. What
brings you up here? Can I do anything for you? Any messages you want
sent?”

“Thank you, Mr. Mercer,” said the chief engineer. “I can’t think of a
soul I want to communicate with. The purser asked me to step up and
tell you about some of the things we shall see. He knew that you would
be interested in them, but you know this is his busy time. He’s up to
his eyes in work just now.”

“I am obliged both to you and to the purser,” said Roy. “I do want
to know about Galveston, but I don’t want to impose upon you, Mr.
Anderson.”

“That’s all right. It’s no imposition. You know I am an engineer and I
never tire of talking of some of the engineering feats that have been
accomplished here. There is nothing in all the world more interesting
from an engineering standpoint than some of the things that have been
done right on this little island.”

Roy opened his eyes wide. He had no idea that Galveston was anything
but a sleepy, southern seaport. He decided not to display his ignorance
and so said nothing. But he felt sure that after what he had seen in
New York, Galveston must prove to be tame indeed.

For a space the two stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the scene in
silence. The usual morning breeze had sprung up and the blue waters
of the Gulf were foaming white under its breath. The whitecaps chased
one another shoreward, and broke on the beach in glistening foam. High
above them rose the town, looking for all the world like a city built
on a rock. Its white houses gleamed in the warm June sun.

Roy soon forgot the still-distant city in his astonishment at seeing
what looked like a gigantic stone wall that seemed to reach straight
out from the shore almost to the _Lycoming_. It made Roy think of some
of the old stone pasture walls on the farms about his home. But this,
being in the sea, couldn’t possibly be a pasture wall, and Roy had no
idea what it was. On the end of it stood a strong little structure that
evidently held a light to guide the way at night.

“What in the world is that curious stone wall for?” asked Roy, turning
to Mr. Anderson.

“I thought that you would soon find something of interest,” said the
chief engineer with a smile. “That is one of the jetties Uncle Sam
built to deepen the channel. If you look off to the right you will see
a second jetty that roughly parallels this. The jetty on the left is
nearly seven miles long. The one on the right is five miles long. That
makes twelve miles of stone wall, as you call it. The two walls are two
miles apart at the shore end and seven thousand feet at this end. We
run in between them.”

“Makes you think of a pasture lane fenced in with stone, doesn’t it?”
inquired Roy with a smile. “But how in the world can two stone walls
have anything to do with making the channel deeper?”

Smiling over Roy’s perplexity, Mr. Anderson replied, “That’s exactly
what these jetties are, in fact--a kind of lane for the waves to go
through. There are two bars that obstruct the entrance to this harbor,
which otherwise is one of the finest in the land. Over the outer bar
there were only twelve feet of water, and at the inner bar nine and
a half feet. An ocean liner draws twenty-five or thirty feet, you
know, and couldn’t possibly get over such a shallow place. That meant
that Galveston, though ideally situated for a seaport, could never be
reached by big ships. The government kept dredging the channel, but the
shoals filled up about as fast as the dredges dug them out. Finally
Uncle Sam’s engineers solved the problem by building those big stone
walls.”

“Even now I don’t understand what the stone walls have to do with
deepening the channel,” said Roy, still perplexed.

Mr. Anderson chuckled. “Those stones, as you call them, are granite
blocks weighing five to twelve tons each,” he said. “The jetties are
twelve to fifteen feet wide at the top and so solid that the water
can’t flow through them; so it has to run between them, exactly like
cattle going down your pasture lane. The tide runs so fast that it
washes the loose sand out of the channel, scouring it clean every day,
as it were. The result is that now Galveston has a thirty-one-foot
channel at high water.”

Roy whistled in astonishment. “That beats anything I ever heard of,” he
said. “It was a pretty slick idea, wasn’t it?”

Steadily the _Lycoming_ ploughed her way along between the jetties. As
they drew near the shore ends of the jetties, Roy noticed that the long
south jetty ran directly to Galveston Island, while the shorter north
jetty ended at a small island in Galveston Bay. Mr. Anderson said it
was called Pelican Island.

But what immediately gripped Roy’s attention was the great wall that
began at the end of the south jetty and ran around the outer side of
the city. Vaguely he remembered having heard of the Galveston sea-wall,
and he knew this must be it. He was amazed as he looked at it.
Evidently the wall was of cement, for it appeared like a solid piece of
stone. Its seaward side was concave, being far wider at the base than
at the top. Its base was protected by a wide riprap of huge granite
blocks, evidently intended to prevent the waves from undermining it.
Roy wondered how the waves could ever get up to the wall, let alone
threaten it, for a stretch of beach, fully two hundred feet wide, lay
between the wall and the waves that were now breaking on the glistening
sands.

“Well, what do you think of it?” inquired the chief engineer after a
time.

“I’ve heard of the Galveston sea-wall,” said Roy, “but I had no idea it
was anything like that. Why, that’s a wonderful piece of work.”

“It’s a great deal more wonderful than you think, Mr. Mercer. It is one
of the most wonderful things in the world. That wall is built on sand.”

“Yes?” said Roy, not appreciating exactly what a difference that meant.

“Yes; on _sand_,” repeated Mr. Anderson, with considerable emphasis on
the word. “You know a heavy sea would ordinarily quickly undermine such
a structure. The sand would be washed from underneath it.”

“Then what prevents the sea from doing it?” asked Roy, growing much
interested.

“It’s built on pilings,” replied the chief engineer. “Four rows of ’em
driven forty-three feet into the sand and projecting a foot up into
the wall itself. Then there’s a twenty-four-foot sheet piling behind
the outer row to prevent scouring, and the stone riprap at the foot
of the wall is twenty-seven feet wide and three feet thick. The wall
itself is sixteen feet thick at the base, five feet wide at the top,
and seventeen feet high. The city built three and a half miles of it,
and the government extended it more than a mile farther to protect Fort
Crockett.”

“Whew!” ejaculated Roy. “That is some piece of engineering. I don’t
wonder you like to look at it.”

“Oh! That’s only part of the story,” continued the chief engineer with
a smile, “and perhaps the smaller part. The raising of the city to the
level of the wall is perhaps more wonderful than the making of the wall
itself. Sea-walls aren’t unique by any means, but I know of nothing
quite like the raising of the level of Galveston. You know the entire
city was raised.”

Roy looked his astonishment. “Not really?” he gasped.

“Yes, really. Before the storm of 1900 the highest point in the city
was only six feet above tide level. Now it is nineteen feet. After the
sea-wall was done, they raised all the buildings and the street-car
tracks, built elevated plank sidewalks, dredged twenty million cubic
yards of sand from the Gulf and pumped it into the city until it filled
up to the proper level. Then they rebuilt foundations, repaved the
streets, replanted the trees and shrubs, and resowed the grass.”

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Roy. “I never heard of anything like it. Why,
it’s wonderful, wonderful! I thought New York was great, but this beats
anything I saw there. Just to think of raising a whole city nineteen
feet in the air! Why, that’s as high as a two-story house.”

“It isn’t quite so wonderful as that,” smiled Mr. Anderson. “The
nineteen-foot elevation is only on the Gulf side. That point is two
hundred feet back from the sea-wall, so that if any water comes over
the wall it will run back into the sea. In the other direction the
ground slopes toward the Bay, where they raised the level only to eight
feet. As the island is about three and a half miles wide, that makes
only a very slight grade.”

For some time Roy stood in silent wonder. He was amazed at what the
chief engineer had told him. Suddenly he turned to his companion and
demanded, “What did they do it for? They’ll probably never have another
storm like that. Why, it must have cost a pile of money.”

“It cost millions,” said Mr. Anderson. “But it was worth it. The flood
of September 8, 1900, swept over the city to a depth of sixteen feet.
People used to live way out this side of the sea-wall, where now you
see only tossing water. The entire end of the island for eight blocks
inland was washed away, with all the houses. Eight or ten thousand
people were drowned and the property loss was many millions. It was
the worst catastrophe due to natural causes in the history of America.
As for storms, you never can tell. Every fall brings hard ones here in
the Gulf. They’ve had some bad ones besides the Galveston flood. In
September, 1875, a terrible hurricane swept the city. Late in August,
1886, another awful storm occurred. But the storm of 1900 was the worst
ever known. There was a tidal wave then that swept right over the
island. If the city was to be safe, it had to be protected somehow. So
they built the sea-wall. Such a wave might occur again at any time.
You might see one yourself this coming September. There are always bad
storms then.”

By this time the _Lycoming_ was close to her dock and Roy was more than
astonished at what he could see of the shipping facilities.

“Whew!” he said. “It looks as though they could handle almost as many
ships here as they do in New York. I had no idea Galveston was so much
of a seaport. There must be miles of wharves. What makes it such a
great seaport, anyway?”

“Some years Galveston ranks next to New York in the volume of its
shipping,” said the chief engineer, “so that it claims to be the second
most important seaport in America. So much of our cotton is shipped by
way of Galveston that it is the greatest cotton port in all the world.
The greatest cottonseed grinding plant in the world is right on the
water-front, where its products can be put directly aboard ships. And
the port handles an enormous amount of tropical products like bananas,
coffee, sugar, lumber, and corn and cattle from Mexico and Argentina.
There are probably sixty or seventy lines of steamboats that run
from here. Ships go direct from Galveston to all the important ports
in Europe, Asia, Latin America, and Cuba. So you see they need vast
shipping facilities. There are six miles of wharves here and more than
one hundred great ocean freighters can load or unload at one time.”

“Great Cæsar!” ejaculated Roy. “This certainly must be a great city.
How big is it, anyway?”

“That’s the interesting thing about Galveston. It does all this
business, but it’s really only a small city. I doubt if there are more
than fifty thousand people here, and its total area is only about
fifteen square miles. You could put it in one of New York’s pockets,
so to speak. Yet it is the leading seaside resort in the southwest and
more than a million pleasure-seekers visit Galveston every year.”

“Gee whiz!” said Roy. “They must be hustlers if so few people can
handle so much traffic. It seemed to me it took almost five thousand
stevedores and truck drivers just to load the _Lycoming_.”

Mr. Anderson laughed. “They can handle so much freight,” he said,
“because everything is built so as to facilitate the work.”

He pointed out some grain elevators beside the wharf from which wheat
was pouring through great spouts directly into waiting steamships, and
he showed Roy water-front warehouses for steel materials, broom-corn,
cotton, and other products.

“We shall dock beside a cotton warehouse,” said the chief engineer.
“Step into the place when you go ashore and take a look at it.”

By this time the _Lycoming_ was close to her berth. The chief engineer
said good-bye and scrambled down the ladder. Roy watched Captain
Lansford dock the steamer. He could not but admire the skilful way
in which the commander laid the huge ship beside her pier as though
she were a mere foot-boat. Then Roy came down to the lower decks
and watched the passengers swarm ashore. Presently he went down the
gangplank himself. He walked up and down the wharf, which felt very
strange indeed because it did not move like the ship.

Presently he stepped into the cotton warehouse the chief engineer had
pointed out to him. Its size amazed him. It was hundreds of yards
long and many wide. Seemingly it contained thousands of huge bales
of cotton, each weighing five hundred pounds. On the landward side
freight trains were standing full of cotton. And the floors of trains,
warehouse, and wharf were on a level, so that the cotton could be
trucked direct from freight-car to steamer in one handling. Roy could
not help contrasting this expeditious way of handling freight with the
cumbersome system necessary in New York.

He was turning the matter over in his mind when the superintendent of
the warehouse came along. Noticing Roy’s uniform, he stopped and spoke
to him.

“Fine morning, sir,” he said. “Belong on the _Lycoming_?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Roy politely.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Thanks. I think not,” said Roy. “I was just admiring your warehouse.”

The superintendent’s face lighted up. “Ain’t she a daisy?” he said.
“One of the finest in the world. Step in and look around.”

“My!” said Roy, “you’ve a lot of cotton here.”

“A mere handful, my boy, a mere handful,” repeated the superintendent.
“Our cotton concentration plants here can accommodate a million bales,
sir, a million bales. We’ve handled four million bales in a year at
this port, sir.”

Roy stepped across the warehouse to look at the cotton cars, but his
eye was instantly caught by the long lines of car tracks that ran
parallel with the wharves. The superintendent noticed his astonishment.

“There are more than seventy-five miles of tracks abutting on our
water-front,” he said, “so you see we can handle a heap of stuff.”

Roy whistled in amazement. “How do trains get here?” he asked. “This is
an island, isn’t it?”

“It sure is an island,” replied the superintendent, “but we are
connected with the mainland by a big causeway of reinforced concrete,
like the sea-wall. It’s two miles long, and has three railroad tracks,
a roadway for vehicles, and a path for pedestrians. It cuts right
across the Bay from the island to Virginia Point on the mainland. You
can see it from here.” And the obliging warehouseman showed Roy the
huge stone roadway spanning the Bay.

“Too bad it had to be built, isn’t it?” said Roy. “It cuts your harbor
in half, I suppose. If it weren’t for that you could sail ships clear
around the island.”

“We can, anyway,” replied the superintendent. “There’s a roller lift
bridge spanning the channel that lifts straight up to let ships pass
through.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Roy. “Is there anything you folks haven’t
done down here?”

The superintendent’s face glowed with pride. “Yes; that’s a pretty fine
causeway,” he said, “but as an engineering feat there’s nothing in
Galveston more interesting than our water supply. We get our drinking
water from artesian wells on the mainland, the water being carried
through huge pipes laid under the Bay.”

“You are certainly a wonderful lot of people, you Galveston folks,”
cried Roy.

Again the superintendent smiled with pleasure. Then his face became
serious. “We have done a lot of interesting things here,” he said,
“but we aren’t a bit different from the rest of the nation. We’re
Americans. That explains all these up-to-date achievements. They
represent the spirit of America. You’ll find Americans doing the same
kind of wonderful things wherever you go--New York, or San Francisco,
or here in Galveston.”

“I’m mighty glad I’m an American,” said Roy with emphasis.

“You ought to be, young man. Don’t ever forget that.”

The superintendent went on about his duties and Roy began to look about
him again. He wanted to see something of the city itself, but decided
to wait until the purser could go with him.

It was not until after luncheon that the purser found time for a stroll
with Roy. Then the two set out for a tour of the city. As they came
down the gangplank, the harbor-master was passing. Catching sight of
the purser, he turned about and hurried over to greet him.

“Good-evening, Mr. Robbins, good-evening,” he said heartily, shaking
the purser’s hand warmly. “I sure am glad to see you. You’ll pardon me
for hurrying away now, won’t you? For I have a pressing job on hand.
But won’t you all stop at my office later? If I’m not there you all
find chairs on the gallery. Nathan will look after you.”

“Thanks,” smiled the purser. “We’ll be delighted to stop.”

He introduced Roy and the harbor-master hurried away, again apologizing
for leaving them.

When the harbor-master was out of hearing, Roy turned to the purser.
“Did you notice that he said ‘good-evening’ to us, and it’s only
half-past one?”

The purser laughed. “In the south,” he explained, “evening begins at
one minute after noon. Nobody ever says good-afternoon down here.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Roy. “And what did he mean by ‘find a chair
on the gallery’?”

“Gallery is the southern name for piazza or portico,” said the purser.

“And did you notice how he said ‘you all’? Does everybody talk like
that down here?”

Again the purser laughed. “Unless he’s just landed, like yourself, he
does.”

“Well,” said Roy, with a sigh, “I see one thing. I’ve got to learn how
to speak English all over again or these folks won’t know what I’m
talking about. How does it come that southerners talk so different from
the rest of the country?”

“It’s easy to see that you’ve never traveled,” replied the purser, “or
you wouldn’t say that. New Englanders don’t talk any more like New
Yorkers than New Yorkers talk like folks out west.”

Roy’s eyes opened wide. “I never knew that,” he said. “What’s the
reason for it?”

“The size of the country,” said the purser. “The United States of
America is as big as half a dozen countries of Europe rolled into
one. We don’t think it strange that people of different nations speak
different languages and it isn’t any stranger that people in different
sections of such a vast country as the United States should develop
different dialects.”

“I never thought of that before,” said Roy.

They passed on into the city. But though it was midday very few persons
were to be seen.

“What’s the matter?” queried Roy. “The streets are almost deserted and
there doesn’t seem to be any business going on at all.”

Again the purser smiled. “Just another difference in customs,” he said.
“In England, you know, all business stops for five o’clock tea. Here
it is the custom to rest during the middle of the day. That’s a common
practice in all hot countries.”

“Well, I never!” cried Roy. “I’m certainly learning a lot.”

They passed on into the city. The business houses were mostly low and
old-fashioned. The dwellings were mostly detached frame structures,
each standing in a yard full of flowers and shrubbery. There was an
almost utter absence of large trees, but after what Roy had learned
about the grade raising he understood why there were none. It
astonished him to learn from the purser that there never had been any
real tall trees, because the island was so near tide level that the
salt water seeping through the sand killed all deep-rooted growths.
What particularly delighted Roy was the presence everywhere of rich
growths of oleanders, and other tropical plants that he had never seen
before.

“I feel almost as though I were in a foreign country,” said Roy after a
time. “It is all so different from the north.”

“In a sense you are in a foreign land,” replied the purser, “for
Galveston hasn’t been a part of the United States nearly as long as
your native Pennsylvania.”

“I didn’t realize that,” said Roy. “How did that happen?”

“You’ve evidently forgotten your history, Roy. Galveston Island, and
all of Texas, for that matter, once belonged to Mexico, and Mexico was
ruled by Spain.”

“Of course,” said Roy, somewhat mortified.

“This island,” continued the purser, “was named after the Count de
Galvez, the Spanish viceroy of Mexico. In 1836 Colonel Michael Menard
organized the Galveston Company and bought the island from the Republic
of Texas for $50,000, but the company didn’t prosper very well. Later
we fought Mexico and in 1848 acquired all of Texas and other border
states in the southwest. After that date Galveston was a sure enough
part of the nation, but you see Uncle Sam was a hale old gentleman of
nearly seventy years by that time. So Galveston has been a part of
the country only about half as long as the territory in the original
thirteen states.”

“It’s mighty interesting to think of the Spaniards being here,” said
Roy. “Reminds you of pirates.”

“There were pirates here all right, but I do not believe they were
Spanish. Jean Lafitte was a very notorious pirate, and in 1816 he made
this island his headquarters. Later he was driven out by the United
States government. What an ideal place this was for him, with this fine
bay to hide in until unsuspecting ships came near. He could probably
get fresh meat here, too, for this island was once a favorite hunting
ground of the Caronkawas, a powerful and warlike tribe of Indians that
lived along the Texas coast.”

The two continued straight on across the island and finally found
themselves on the Gulf side. They stood on the broad sea-wall and
looked out over the great expanse of tossing waves. Far as the eye
could see nothing was visible but shining water. Far below them the
waves broke on the sands and chased one another up the sloping beach.
High above the sands, on great pilings, stood numerous pavilions and
piers built for the accommodation of pleasure-seekers. Along the
sea-wall ran a broad promenade of asphalt, the water-front buildings
standing a hundred feet back from the sea-wall. There were few bathers,
but the purser said the beach would be crowded later in the day.

From the Gulf beach the two sightseers made their way back to the
_Lycoming_ by circuitous routes, walking this way and that to see
objects of interest that the purser wanted to point out. They saw some
of the twenty magnificent hotels that care for the floating population,
including the community hotel, The Galvez, that was built by popular
subscription. They took a look at the United States Custom-house and
other public buildings, saw the great dry dock and marine works, the
clearing and conditioning elevator, the creosoting plant, and a number
of big factories and warehouses. When they got back to the _Lycoming_,
after stopping for a chat with the harbor-master, Roy felt as though
he had been on a very long journey. He had seen more new things and
learned more than he believed possible in one day.

But nothing pleased him more than the fact that everybody treated him
as though he were a man. It was only a few days since people in Central
City had been shouting at him, “Hey, kid!” Now every one addressed
him as Mr. Mercer and was very courteous to him--that is, every one
excepting Captain Lansford, who hardly spoke to him at all and who
seemed annoyed every time he met him. Roy believed he was doing his
work well enough to deserve his captain’s good-will. He had been
absolutely faithful and had spent much more time at his post than the
regulations required. But the captain seemed to have no understanding
of that fact or appreciation of what he was doing.

“Well,” sighed Roy, “one swallow doesn’t make a summer, and one voyage
doesn’t make an experienced wireless man. The time will come when the
captain will be glad he’s got a wireless man aboard. I’ll learn all I
can and make myself as useful as possible. My opportunity will come.”




CHAPTER IX THWARTING A WIRELESS INCENDIARY


There seemed small chance that his opportunity would come while the
_Lycoming_ was in port, however, for the great ship lay peacefully
in her dock, day after day, while the process of loading her went on
apace. There was almost nothing for Roy to do. Though he had seen
a great deal on the day of his arrival, there still remained many
points of interest that he wished to visit. But before doing any more
sightseeing, Roy determined to familiarize himself with the _Lycoming_.
He was working for more than amusement. A chance might come, even
though he had nothing whatever to do with navigating the ship, when a
thorough knowledge of the vessel might be of great use. So he decided
to stick to the ship for a time.

Roy was now in position to learn with ease whatever he wished to know
about the _Lycoming_. He felt sure that both Mr. Young, the first
mate, and the chief engineer, Mr. Anderson, had taken a fancy to him.
As for the purser, Mr. Robbins, Roy knew well enough that the latter
was his firm friend. Sam, the steward, had looked after Roy with that
genuine solicitude that only an old southern darky can display, and Roy
had already grown fond of the white-headed negro. He knew that these
men would gladly show him any parts of the ship he wished to see.

Immediately after breakfast on the morning after their arrival, Roy
slipped down to the purser’s office. He intended merely to ask what
was the most interesting thing to see on shipboard. But when he beheld
the purser sweating at his desk, with a mountainous pile of bills,
receipts, and other memoranda stacked around him, Roy immediately made
up his mind what he was going to do.

“See here,” said Roy. “Isn’t there something I can do to help you? I
can add pretty well and write a plain hand, and I’m looking for a job.”

The purser looked at him quizzically. “Tired of sightseeing already?”
he asked.

“Not a bit of it,” said Roy. “I’m going to see everything in this town
that’s worth seeing. But you’re loaded down with work. I can see that.
And if there’s anything I can do to help you, I want to do it. The
sightseeing can wait. What shall I do?”

“If you really mean it,” said the purser, “you can help me an awful
lot. Just read these memoranda to me while I check the entries in my
books.”

All that morning Roy and the purser worked in the latter’s office. Roy
read memoranda, added figures, copied accounts, and did other tasks as
directed. For a while Mr. Robbins checked up Roy’s work; but he soon
found that Roy was careful and made no mistakes. When noon came the
purser threw down his pen with a sigh of relief.

“Lad,” he said, “it would have taken me two days to do alone what the
two of us have accomplished this morning. This just about clears up
my work at this end of the trip. I can’t tell you how I hate all this
business of accounts or how much obliged I am to you. I don’t know how
to thank you.”

“Pshaw!” protested Roy. “I haven’t done anything. I ought to thank you
for teaching me something about a purser’s work. I want to know all
about steamships, now that I’m going to live on one.”

“Good boy,” cried the purser. “I thought I wasn’t mistaken in you.
I’ll back you to succeed, Roy.”

“I’ll need a whole lot of backing,” laughed Roy, “if I am ever to get
anywhere with Captain Lansford. He sure has it in for me.”

“Just forget about him and keep on plugging,” said the purser. “You’ll
swear by him when you know him better.”

Roy made a wry face.

“Come on, lad,” suggested the purser, pulling on his coat. “No old
ship’s grub for us to-day. We’ll have a bite of real southern cooking.”

He hooked his arm in Roy’s and they hustled up the gangplank and down
the wharf toward a near-by restaurant, where they had chicken gumbo
soup, fried chicken, hot corn bread, Mexican coffee, so strong it
almost made Roy sick, and a number of other dishes that were strange
and wonderful to Roy.

The purser was feeling very complacent by the time they returned to the
ship.

“What do we do next?” asked Roy. “I’m eager to learn some more about a
purser’s work.”

“We’re going to tackle a little job that is always part of this
purser’s business when he is in Galveston, and that will be as
interesting to you, I suspect, as it is new.”

He leaned forward and punched the call bell. In a few moments Sam, the
steward, appeared.

“What can I do for yuh, Mistah Robbins, suh?” he inquired, bowing and
smiling.

“You know that little job I always do down here with a pound of white
meat, Sam?”

“’Deed I does, suh,” chuckled the darky, grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, then you know what to do, Sam. I want you to fix us up in your
very best style. Mr. Mercer has never dangled a bit of white meat.”

Sam went out, chuckling aloud, and Roy was too astonished for words. He
didn’t like to ask questions, for the purser had once admonished him to
keep his eyes open and his mouth shut if he wished to get ahead in the
world; so he waited for the purser to explain. But Mr. Robbins gave him
no hint of what to expect. All he said was, “We’ll just check off this
last list while Sam is getting us ready.” But Roy could see that the
purser’s eyes were dancing.

Before they were done with the check-list, Sam reappeared. He had two
large chunks of whitish meat, each piece weighing a pound or more, and
each being attached to a long length of strong cord.

The purser threw down the list they were checking. “Come on,” he said,
and picking up the two pieces of meat, he led the way on deck. A yawl
was bobbing alongside the _Lycoming_ and a rope ladder had been let
down to it. In the yawl lay two scoop nets. Mr. Robbins dropped the
meat into the yawl, then led the way down the ladder.

“Now lower your meat into the water until it is completely out of
sight,” said the purser, when the two had seated themselves at opposite
ends of the little boat. “When you feel something nibbling at your
bait, pull up very slowly and gently. So.” And he dropped his meat into
the water, then carefully raised it.

Roy did as directed, and sat very still, holding the line over his
forefinger. The current tugged at his bait and deceived him at first
and he lifted his meat in vain. But presently he felt a very different
sort of pull on his cord. Drawing it upward ever so gently, the white
meat presently came in sight and hanging to it with its two claws was a
greenish-blue creature with a number of flippers gently waving in the
water.

“Easy now,” urged the purser. “Scoop him gently or you’ll lose him.
He’s a big one.” And he thrust one of the nets into Roy’s hand.

But Roy was too eager. He made a little splash as he dipped the net,
and the creature sank from sight. Roy made a vigorous scoop with the
net, but missed it.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Roy. “That was a fool trick. I’ll bet I don’t scare
the next one away.”

Nor did he. The purser lifted and netted one of the creatures while Roy
was speaking, and dropped it in the bottom of the boat. But before Roy
had time to look at it, he felt another tug at his line. Gently lifting
his bait, he discovered another of the creatures nibbling at it. This
one was a whopper. Taking great care, Roy netted the thing and dropped
it in the boat with an exclamation of triumph.

“They look exactly like crabs,” said Roy, “only they are green instead
of red.”

The purser burst into a roar of laughter, and over his head Roy heard
suppressed titterings. He looked up and saw several of the stewards,
including Sam, watching them.

“Forgive me, old fellow,” said the purser after a moment, wiping his
eyes with his handkerchief. “I just couldn’t help laughing. They are
crabs, all right enough. Those you are evidently familiar with have
been boiled. These will be red, too, when they are cooked. Boiling
changes their color.”

Roy laughed heartily at his own mistake. “I don’t wonder they turn red
when they’re boiled,” he said. “I believe I should, too. And I don’t
wonder you laughed at me.”

“I’m heartily ashamed of myself,” said the purser, now sober enough,
“but I just couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” smiled Roy. “I should have laughed harder
than you did if I had been in your place.”

“Good for you, Roy,” rejoined the purser. “Anybody who can laugh at a
joke when it’s on himself, will get along all right.”

In a short time they had caught a fine mess of crabs and the creatures
were crawling all over the bottom of the boat. Roy tried to pick one of
them up, but the crab nipped his fingers with its claws until the blood
came.

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Roy. “They sure can pinch.”

“Let me show you how to handle them,” suggested the purser. And
selecting the largest and fiercest looking crab in the boat, he deftly
caught it from behind and picked it up. The creature tried in vain to
pinch the purser’s fingers but could not reach them. Imitating the
purser, Roy safely picked up a crab and soon was holding one aloft in
each hand.

“Sam,” said the purser, dropping his meat into the bottom of the boat,
“see what you can do with these fellows. And remember, Mr. Mercer has
never eaten fresh crabs.”

When the two fishermen had climbed to the deck of the _Lycoming_ and
Sam had taken charge of the crabs, the purser said to Roy, “Now run
along and enjoy yourself. I’m a thousand times obliged to you for your
help.”

“Isn’t there anything more that I can do to help you?” asked Roy.

“Not a thing, lad. One can finish what remains as well as two, and
perhaps better than two. But I’m obliged to you for the offer.”

“I’m obliged to you for the dinner and the introduction to real, live
crabs,” said Roy as he turned away from the purser and found himself
face to face with the chief engineer.

“Well, did you enjoy yourself?” asked Mr. Anderson, with a smile. “I
saw you crabbing with Mr. Robbins.”

“I had a fine time,” answered Roy. “It was my first experience at
catching crabs.”

“You’re seeing lots of new things, aren’t you?”

“Yes, indeed, and they are all interesting. Sometime I hope you will be
willing to show me your engines.”

Mr. Anderson’s face lighted up like a child’s. “Would you really like
to see them?” he asked.

“Indeed I would, Mr. Anderson. I want to learn everything I can about
ships. Sometime I may be able to make use of the knowledge.”

“That’s the way to get ahead in the world,” commented the chief
engineer. “Learn all you can about everything. If you are not busy now,
I’ll be happy to show you the engine room. It’s always a pleasure to
show things to people when they are interested.”

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I shall be glad indeed to see the engine
room.”

They went down into the interior of the ship. “These are the
coal-bunkers,” said the chief engineer, showing Roy the rows of
compartments where the coal was kept and explaining how it was carried
to the fire-room by coal-passers. The fire-room itself seemed like a
furnace to Roy, but Mr. Anderson said it was quite cool, for some of
the fires had been drawn altogether and most of those still burning
were banked.

“If you want to know what heat is,” said Mr. Anderson, “you must come
down here sometime when we’re making maximum steam pressure. Then every
one of these furnaces is roaring hot. At that time the only air that
gets into the fire-room comes down through the ventilators and goes
up through the furnace. That’s what we call forced draught. It keeps
the firemen busy then to feed the fires and rake the grates clear of
clinkers. You can see what beds of coals they have to tend.”

He threw open a furnace door. Even with the fire burning low, the wave
of heat seemed stifling to Roy.

“How can they ever stand it to work in such heat?” asked Roy. “The
temperature must be terrible here when all your fires are roaring.”

“Yes; it gets pretty hot. I suppose the thermometer touches 150 or 160
degrees at times. The men wear thick woolen shirts to protect them from
the heat. But even so they can’t stand it very long at a stretch. They
work in four-hour shifts.”

With great interest Roy looked at the huge boilers and all the shining
machinery. He had no idea it required such a great lot of engines to
run a steamship.

“It’s mighty interesting,” said Roy, when they had completed their
inspection, “and I am very much obliged to you for showing this to me.
Sometime I want to come down when all your fires are going. I’m glad I
have seen it all, for now it will mean more to me when the ship is at
sea. I’ll think of you fellows sweating away down here in order that
the ship may sail safely.”

“And we’ll think of you, way up in your perch, keeping watch and
calling help if we need it. It’s a great comfort to know that the
_Lycoming_ is equipped with wireless. The old boat we used to run on
had no wireless, and many’s the storm I’ve been through when I thought
my last minute was near. I tell you we have some rough weather down
here in the Gulf.”

“Well,” said Roy ruefully, “I’m glad you don’t agree with the captain
about wireless. It’s rather discouraging to work in such circumstances.
It will help me to do good work to think about you fellows down in the
engine room.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Anderson, “it takes a good many men to run a big
ship, and every one has to do his work well if the ship is to be safe.
But when you think of the rest of us, don’t forget that the captain is
working for you just as hard as the rest of us, and perhaps harder. You
mustn’t let your differences with the skipper blind you to his worth.
He’s a great sailor. Some day you’ll admire him as much as the rest of
us do. Good-bye. Come again.”

Roy spent many hours watching the unloading of the ship. It was
interesting to see the big boom draw over the open hatch and the great
netfuls of freight come slowly up out of the hold and swing over the
ship’s side and down to the wharf. But eventually the scene lost its
charm, and Roy was glad enough when the purser came along one morning
and invited him to take a walk along the water-front. They visited a
number of ships, and Roy saw several that he had read about in the
newspapers. Everybody seemed glad to see the purser, and Roy did not
wonder that he had so many friends. They went aboard one of the big
ships of the Ward Line, and the purser made Roy known to the wireless
man and some of the officers, as he had done on each ship.

“You came down just a lap behind us,” said the wireless man, whose name
was Reynolds, “and you’ll be only a few hours behind us going back.
I’ll give you a call once in a while and let you know what sort of
weather is ahead of you.”

“Thanks,” said Roy. “That will be fine.”

“You should have arrived a day sooner,” said Mr. Reynolds, turning to
the purser. “The _Empress_ left just twelve hours before you came in.”
And then to Roy he added, “Stimson is wireless man on the _Empress_.
He’s a bully good fellow, and you’ll like him.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the purser. “The captain will be sorry to hear that.
Funny about those two men, isn’t it?”

The wireless man nodded and the purser turned to Roy, who was wondering
what he meant.

“You know the captain’s brother is in command of the _Empress_,” he
explained. “She runs to Cuba and South America. The two men have been
sailing to this port for a long time, but they haven’t seen each other
in ten years. They always seem to miss each other. Their schedules
just don’t quite overlap, and both are such blame good sailors they’re
always on schedule.”

“You bet they’re good sailors,” said Mr. Reynolds with emphasis.
“You’re a lucky fellow to start your life afloat with such a commander
as Captain John Lansford. He’s easily the best commander your line
possesses, and I rate him as the best sailing into Galveston. He
wouldn’t be commodore of the Confederated Lines if he weren’t a
crackerjack, you can bet, and he wouldn’t be in charge of their newest
and finest boat. But his brother is a close second.”

Roy made no reply. He had no idea his commander ranked so high.
Presently they said good-bye to Mr. Reynolds and continued on up the
water-front. They visited a number of great warehouses, had a look
inside a grain elevator, and went aboard several more ships. Altogether
Roy met eight or ten wireless operators. He felt grateful to the purser
for making him acquainted with these men. He foresaw that it would make
his work much more pleasant. When they came back to the ship the day
was almost ended. Roy noticed that the big boom was no longer working,
but had been made fast again. Evidently the ship was unloaded. Next day
they would begin to take on cargo. Excepting for a few small shipments
of stuff from Mexican ports, the cargo would consist almost wholly of
cotton.

The instant Roy set eyes on his commander the next morning, he knew
something was wrong. From the purser he soon learned that the cotton
train that was bringing the _Lycoming_’s cargo had been wrecked, and
would be many hours late, if not indeed whole days behind time. There
was considerable cotton in the warehouse, but nowhere nearly enough to
fill the _Lycoming’s_ capacious holds.

The Mexican stuff was put aboard first. There were logs of mahogany,
bags of coffee, bundles of crude rubber, quantities of cocoanuts, and
bales of hemp. These were stowed in the very nose of the ship. Then the
colored roustabouts began to load the cotton.

Roy had been astonished at the work done by the stevedores in New
York. He was simply amazed at the herculean labors of the dusky cotton
handlers. From the far end of the great warehouse, they came trundling
the huge cotton bales, each weighing approximately five hundred pounds,
on their little barrel trucks. But what astonished Roy was the way
they shot their great loads into the ship’s hold. The tide was at ebb,
and the _Lycoming’s_ open ports were far below the level of the wharf.
Down a steep gangway cut into the pier itself went the roustabouts,
one behind another in a constant stream, each riding the handles of
his truck to lessen the speed as his heavy load fairly shot down the
incline. By the time the truck plunged through the open port its
momentum was terrific. Yet the roustabout regained his footing, and
guided the fast-moving truck to one side with incredible skill, often
turning it at a sharp angle. For a long time Roy watched the ceaseless
procession of cotton bales shoot into the _Lycoming’s_ hold. At first
he hardly breathed for fear a truck would upset as it made the sharp
turn, and those behind it come crashing into it, probably mutilating,
if not killing outright, the roustabouts that guided them. But truck
after truck came plunging down, one close behind another, while the
returning freight handlers as ceaselessly pushed their empty trucks up
the other side of the gangway. It seemed to Roy that an accident _must_
happen. Yet minute after minute passed and the procession of cotton
bales continued without interruption.

For an hour Roy watched the roustabouts, his wonder at their strength
and skill increasing minute by minute. Finally he decided that he
would ask Mr. Young to show him the wheel-house and the officers’
quarters. He had hardly reached the main stairway, however, before
a revenue officer came bustling aboard and demanded to see the
_Lycoming’s_ commander. Sam, the steward, carried the officer’s message
up to the captain’s cabin, and a moment later Captain Lansford came
striding down the stairway.

The revenue officer greeted him with great politeness. “I’m sorry to
tell you, Captain Lansford,” he said, “that we are in receipt of a tip
that a quantity of whiskey has been smuggled into this port from Mexico
in bales of hemp. I have traced the bales and find they have been
loaded aboard the _Lycoming_. I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll have to examine
those bales.”

The captain gave an exclamation of disgust. “Where are those bales
stowed?” he asked, turning to the officer in charge of loading.

“Forrard, sir, in the very nose of the ship.”

“Can we get at them easily?”

“There are a few hundred bales of cotton piled on top of them and
behind them.”

“The dickens!” snorted the captain. “Get ’em out, and be quick about
it.”

Instantly word was passed to the roustabouts to stop loading and take
their trucks into the hold. But the roustabouts could not shift the
cargo fast enough to suit Captain Lansford.

“Get your donkey-engine ready to hoist those hemp bales out,” he
ordered.

The engine had been stowed forward. Skids were put under it, the engine
was shifted into position, the belt slipped on, and the foremast
derrick-boom unlashed and coupled up with the engine.

Meantime the roustabouts had been taking the cotton bales from the nose
of the ship and trucking them aft of the forward hatch, where they
dumped them down without order. The result was that the forward hold
speedily filled and the cotton began to pile up under the hatchway.

When Captain Lansford noticed it he exploded with anger. “Get those
bales out of that,” he shouted at the roustabouts. “We want the
hatchway clear for hoisting.”

Not all the cotton had yet been removed from the forehold and the way
aft was blocked by the cotton that had been thrown helter-skelter by
the roustabouts.

“Start your engine,” called the captain, “and jerk some of those bales
out on deck.”

The donkey-engine was started and bale after bale lifted to the deck,
while the roustabouts below were struggling desperately to shift the
bales away from the hatchway. In the haste the cotton was handled
recklessly. Some of the metal bale straps were broken, the white, snowy
contents bulging out of the sacking like pop-corn swelling out of an
overfilled popper. But finally all the cotton was got out of the road.
The deck about the hatchway was piled high with it, and the hold near
the hatch was heaped with disorderly piles of it.

Next the bales of hemp were trucked to the hatchway and hoisted, one by
one, to the deck. Eagerly the revenue officer attacked them, cutting
bands, tearing out handfuls of the long, dry fibres, and probing in the
hearts of the bales. Soon the deck was littered with loose hemp fibres
and wads of cotton, that the stiff breeze blew about in little clouds.
Bale after bale was torn open, but though he searched every bale, the
revenue officer found no smuggled whiskey. In great mortification he
apologized to the captain for his interference with loading operations.
Roy was surprised at the captain’s reply.

“You were merely doing your duty,” he said, “and no apologies are
necessary. Have a cigar--a real Havana--sent me by my brother--and not
smuggled, sir.” And the captain opened his cigar case and extended it
to his visitor.

“Well, wouldn’t that jar you?” said Roy to himself. “I expected to
see some fireworks and here he hands the revenue man a good cigar. I
noticed one thing. He said it was all right because the man was doing
his duty. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.”

The revenue officer went away. Captain Lansford ordered the cargo
stowed again and went to his quarters. Mr. Young took charge, and soon
the roustabouts were putting the ship to rights again. Roy lingered to
watch them.

First of all the hemp bales had to go back in place. Cords were
brought and the bales tied up in the best way possible. But it was not
practicable to replace the torn-out fibres. One by one the hemp bales
were lowered into the hold. The cotton bales followed. Roy noticed
that when these great quarter-ton packages rose above the deck they
climbed aloft jerkily and he saw that the belt on the donkey-engine was
slipping badly. For several minutes he watched, then walked over to the
donkey-engine to see what was wrong. Cotton bales were piled all about
and he had to edge his way between them and the whirling belt. Suddenly
the wind lifted his hat. He grabbed for it, then jumped back as though
he had been jabbed with a pin.

“I must have been scraped by the moving belt,” thought Roy. But a
second later he muttered, “Why, a belt couldn’t have felt like that
through my clothes! Wonder what it was.”

Curious, he again pressed close to the belt and again something stung
him.

“Electricity,” thought Roy. “That slipping belt is generating
electricity.”

Then he thought of the cotton. A glance showed him a ragged bale with a
metal strap broken in two places, and one jagged end swaying close to
the moving belt. Across the bale, and lying fairly on the broken metal
band, rested a chain that had been flung there to clear the deck. Its
lower end dangled across the metal frame of the hatchway. The thought
of fire flashed through Roy’s head. A spark leaping to the broken band
as it had leaped to his body, might ignite the ragged bale. The litter
of cotton and hemp fibre, swirling in the wind and falling through the
hatchway, would carry the flames like tinder to the heart of the ship.

“Mr. Young,” shouted Roy. “Get that bale away quick!”

But even as he spoke a spark leaped across the break in the bale strap.
A second spark might fire the bale. There was no time for words. Roy
leaped to the belt and frantically tore it loose. The donkey-engine
began to race at terrible speed. The bale in mid-air came tumbling
down on the heaped-up cotton, bounced to the deck, and landed fairly
against the racing donkey-engine. With a crash that jarred the ship
the engine overturned. Snap! went the piston-rod. Then the machine lay
still.

Roy was aghast. He turned to the first officer to explain. The captain,
aroused by the noise, came running down the stairway. His face grew
black as he surveyed the ruin.

“What does this mean?” he demanded, turning to Mr. Young.

But before the first officer could speak, Roy stepped in front of the
captain.

“I did it to prevent fire, sir,” he said.

The captain exploded with wrath. “What do you mean by interfering with
the operation of the ship?” he said fiercely. “If there was danger of
fire, why didn’t you notify the officer in charge?”

“I did try to, sir, but there wasn’t time. The belt was generating
electricity and the broken bale strap was already charged with it.
I saw one spark, and if I hadn’t thrown the belt off the engine the
cotton might have been afire in a second. With all this litter on deck,
the wind blowing so hard, and the hatchway open, the ship might have
burned. I’m sorry I broke the engine, sir, but I acted to save the
ship.”

“All nonsense. Who ever heard of a donkey-engine belt making sparks.
Don’t you ever dare to interfere with operations on shipboard again. Go
to your quarters. And in future try to control your imagination.”




CHAPTER X A LESSON IN DIPLOMACY


A few minutes later the purser stepped quietly into the wireless house.
Roy sat before his operating table, his head bowed on his extended arms.

“Cheer up!” called the purser. “This won’t do at all. Tell me what has
happened.”

Roy recounted the entire incident. As the recital continued, the
purser’s face became as sober as Roy’s had been.

“I don’t know a thing about electricity,” he commented, when Roy had
concluded his brief description of what had occurred. “Are you very
sure that you are correct?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Robbins. You see, the belt on the donkey-engine
was slipping. I noticed that at the start. The slipping of the belt
produced undue friction and that, in turn, developed frictional or
static electricity. The more the belt slipped, the more it became
charged with electricity. Finally the belt became so highly charged
that the electricity jumped to the swaying end of the broken bale
strap. This bale strap was broken into two pieces. The end swaying
caught the charge as it leaped from the belt and a second spark
occurred when the charge leaped the other gap in the strap. This last
part of the strap was grounded by the chain that ran down to the
metal frame of the ship. So there was a perfect mechanism for making
and discharging electricity. As long as the belt continued to slip,
electricity would have been generated. And every time the current was
discharged, there would have been a spark right in that loose cotton
where the bale was broken open.”

“I don’t know a thing about electricity, as I told you. But if you say
it was so, I have no doubt it was.”

“It’s just like electricity in the skies,” explained Roy. “You have
often seen lightning, Mr. Robbins. Lightning is only electricity
leaping from a cloud to the earth or to another cloud. We usually have
lightning in hot weather. Then the heated air from the earth rushes
upward with such velocity that it generates electricity, charging the
clouds with it, just as that whirling belt was charged by the friction
of the wheel. That electricity has to reach the earth. When the
potential is high enough, the current leaps from the cloud to the earth
and a spark occurs which we call lightning. Sparks are made only when
an electric current is interrupted in its flow and has to jump a gap.
Electricity is flowing through a telegraph-wire all the time, but there
is no spark because there is no break in the wire. But if the wire
should be cut and the ends held near together, the current would jump
the gap, making a spark as it leaped. That’s the thing that makes it
possible to have automobiles. Electric currents run from the magneto,
which generates them, to the spark-plugs in the cylinders. There the
currents have to leap tiny gaps and sparks result, which explode the
gasoline vapor. There are several ways to generate electricity, but the
current, once generated, always follows the same laws. Yet I couldn’t
make the captain understand. In fact he wouldn’t give me an opportunity
to explain. I tried to do my duty by the ship, and now I’m worse off
than ever. The captain will never have a bit of use for me after this.
I suppose I’ll not only lose my berth at the end of my three months,
but he’ll make such an unfavorable report about me that I’ll never have
another chance.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Roy. Leave it to me. I know the captain
like a book and I know how to fix things up. I don’t wonder you feel as
you do about Captain Lansford, but when you really know him, you’ll
feel differently. He has his peculiarities, like the rest of us, and
one of them is his utter hatred of what he terms newfangled ideas. The
greatest pride of his life is the fact that in thirty years at sea
he has never lost a man or a ship. If some one can show him that you
probably saved his ship from destruction, he’ll have a very different
idea of both you and wireless telegraphy.”

“But he won’t listen to any explanation,” said Roy, mournfully.

“Leave that to me. I know how to fix him. Meantime, continue to do your
work as faithfully as you know how. Forget that you are working under
Captain Lansford and remember that you are working for the welfare
of the _Lycoming_. If you do that, you can’t fail in time to win the
captain’s good-will. That’s his test of every soul aboard--whether or
not they are working for the good of the ship.

“When you threw off the engine belt and the engine was broken, you hit
the captain harder than you understood. He has a wonderful record for
sailing on time. We’re behind with our loading now. When that cotton
train does arrive, the captain will drive every soul like mad. We were
short-handed when we left New York. The captain has taken on four men
here at Galveston, but he doesn’t like their looks. If they aren’t any
better than they appear, he might as well not have hired them. But what
is most likely to delay us is the relative scarcity of roustabouts.
But if it’s humanly possible, he’ll be loaded on time. The loss of the
donkey-engine may interfere very seriously with loading operations.
You never can tell when you are going to need it. The thought of that
and not the mere injury to the engine is what made him so angry. But
remember this, Roy. Everything considered, the captain handled you very
gently. I know it was because he realized that you were sincere in your
belief that you were acting for the good of the ship. He didn’t believe
a word you said about the electricity. He thought you imagined that you
saw sparks. But whether you believe it or not, he gave you full credit
for trying to do your duty.”

“He took a mighty queer way of showing it,” said Roy, ruefully.

“He’s a queer man, Roy. But he’s absolutely honest and absolutely just.
His trouble is to see past his prejudices.”

“Then how are you ever going to make him understand about the
donkey-engine?”

“Leave that to me, Roy. I know how to manage it.”

But if the purser did know, he apparently forgot all about the matter.
At least so it seemed to Roy. Hours and even days passed with no
further reference to the affair by the purser, who was again busy,
and with no change in Captain Lansford’s grim attitude toward Roy. It
even seemed to Roy as though the captain avoided meeting him, and Roy
could interpret that only as meaning that the captain was still angry
with him and was annoyed at the sight of him. In consequence, Roy was
miserable, particularly because he thought the purser had failed him.
That hurt, for Roy still suffered from boyish impatience. He thought
that the purser, if he could remedy the matter at all, should be able
to fix it overnight.

Meantime, the process of loading went on apace. The warehouse was
emptied and every possible preparation made to rush the loading when
finally the belated cotton train arrived. Roy had watched with wonder
the way the ship was loaded in New York, but he was simply astounded at
the way the work went here. He had always heard that southern darkies
were indolent; but there was nothing indolent about these strapping,
dusky roustabouts. They seemed as tireless and tough as army mules.
Hour after hour they worked at top speed, shooting the cotton bales
into the _Lycoming’s_ hold in an uninterrupted stream and at a pace
that was past belief. Extra pay was offered them to work over-hours,
and by the aid of numerous electric lights the work continued until
well into the night. Very early in the morning work was resumed. So it
went until the last bale was aboard. The cargo was safely stowed and
the hatches battened down before the sailing hour had arrived.

Again Roy had to admit to himself that what seemed impossible had once
more been achieved and that it had been accomplished by the captain.
Lovable he was not. But something about him was so big and strong, so
dominating, so overpowering, that his spirit seemed to communicate
itself to those around him. Roy had often heard of magnetism, without
exactly understanding what it was. Now that he actually saw it, he did
not recognize it as magnetism. All he knew was that the captain, when
aroused, seemed so utterly to dominate those about him that they became
for the time being infused with his own spirit. And that spirit simply
would not admit the possibility of failure. To Captain Lansford the
word “if” was unknown.

Long before the loading was completed the last passenger was aboard,
and there was nothing to prevent the _Lycoming_ from casting off on
the stroke of the hour. As sailing time approached, Roy once more found
himself busy. As usual, there were messages to send for passengers and
more or less routine work to be done in connection with the departure
of the ship itself.

By this time Roy’s shyness was beginning to wear off. On the trip down
he had purposely kept aloof from passengers, and except for the first
officer, the chief engineer, and the purser, he had made few friends.
Now he felt more at home. He had become familiar with his duties and
his position. He knew what was expected of him. Naturally of a friendly
disposition, he was glad that his position permitted him to know the
various members of the crew and the passengers. Of the men in the
fire-room and the sailors he saw little; but he now tried to cultivate
the acquaintance of the other officers and of some of the passengers.
His sunny disposition and natural brightness soon made him a general
favorite. Had it not been for the captain’s uncompromising attitude
toward him, Roy would have been quite happy. He felt that he was
succeeding in his work, and he could feel that those about him liked
him. But it still hurt him to think that the purser had failed him.

On the first day out Roy was late in answering the dinner call. As he
passed the captain’s table, on the way to his own, some one whispered
audibly, “There he is now.” A score of persons looked around as Roy
made his way to his own seat. Hardly had he settled himself in his
chair before the purser’s voice rang out from a near-by table. It was
so unlike the pleasant-mannered purser thus to talk in loud tones that
Roy was astonished. He paused to listen, as everybody else seemed to be
doing.

Distinctly he heard the purser saying, “Yes, sir, saved the ship by his
quick wit. The donkey-engine belt was slipping and creating electricity
by friction. The broken end of a metal cotton bale strap swaying close
to the belt became electrified, and the charge leaped across a break
in the strap, like a spark jumping the gap in a spark-plug. There was
no end of cotton and hemp fibres swirling about in the wind, and the
spark itself occurred in some loose cotton that had bulged out of the
bale when the metal strap broke. It was broad daylight and nobody saw
the spark but the wireless man. He was watching for it. He knew that
sparks would continue to flash as long as the belt kept on generating
electricity and that another spark might set the cotton afire. The
chief engineer says it’s a miracle that the cotton didn’t catch. If it
had, the flames would have spread like lightning with all that loose
stuff about and the wind blowing half a gale. Fire would have been in
the hold before anybody could have said Jack Robinson, and nothing
short of a miracle could have saved the ship. For there was no steam up
to fight the flames with. The chief engineer says that if Mr. Mercer
hadn’t acted so promptly, the _Lycoming_ would certainly not have been
sailing to-day, to say the least.”

During this recital the dining-saloon had become as still as death.
Not a knife clinked or a glass tinkled. Every other voice was hushed.
The waiters paused in the aisles, trays held aloft, until the purser
concluded his recital. Speaking as though to his own table only, the
purser was really addressing everybody in the dining-saloon. Every one
could hear him plainly and distinctly, including Captain Lansford. Like
everybody else he listened carefully, but his face was inscrutable.

When Roy realized that the purser was talking about him his cheeks
flamed with embarrassment. He bent his head and kept his eyes fastened
on his plate. As the purser continued his story, hot anger came into
Roy’s heart. It was quite bad enough for the purser to fail to make an
effort to straighten out the matter with Captain Lansford. But for the
purser to humiliate him merely for the sake of making a telling story
was unforgivable. For Roy could not conceive why the purser should
mention the matter before the entire company of passengers unless
it were that he wanted to tell a striking story. Angry, confused,
embarrassed, Roy wanted to flee from the dining-saloon. But he could
not do so without making himself conspicuous. There was nothing to do
but go on with his dinner. So angry and confused that he hardly knew
what he was putting into his mouth, Roy tried to eat. But no sooner had
the purser stopped speaking than scores of eyes were focused on Roy,
and from every part of the room complimentary remarks were flung at
him. Then somebody cried, “Speech! Let’s hear from Mr. Mercer himself!”
The cry was taken up and the dining-saloon rang with the summons,
“Speech! Speech! Tell us more about it, Mr. Mercer.”

Roy was paralyzed with embarrassment. He had done nothing remarkable,
nothing out of the ordinary, and to be made a hero under such
circumstances was humiliating. In fact, in his worriment, Roy had
almost come to the conclusion that the captain must be right and that
far from being a hero he was only a troublesome meddler.

“Speech! Speech!” continued the cries.

But Roy was dumb to all appeal. He looked at his plate in silence and
his face flamed like fire.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the purser, springing to his feet when
he saw Roy’s embarrassment, “Mr. Mercer is a man of deeds, not words.
Every one of us from the captain down will feel safer because he is
aboard. He evidently does not want to talk and we shall not make him.
I owe him an apology for putting him in such an embarrassing position.
I’ll punish myself by making a speech for him.”

The purser was both a ready and a witty speaker and for several minutes
he kept the diners laughing at his good jokes. That gave Roy time to
regain his composure. By the time the purser’s little speech was ended
Roy was quite himself again. When those seated at his table turned to
congratulate him he talked to them frankly and without embarrassment,
but refused to discuss the incident the purser had described. Numbers
of people spoke to him when the dinner was ended. Roy was glad when he
could escape and seek the seclusion of the wireless house.

Yet he felt far from being hurt or mortified, as he considered the
matter calmly in the seclusion of his own room. Every word that the
purser had said was true. The engine belt was generating electricity.
He _had_ prevented a fire by his action. Of that he had not the
slightest doubt. But there was nothing in what he had done that was in
any sense heroic or that deserved especial mention.

Any one else, seeing the danger, would have acted to save the ship. The
sole difference between himself and others who were on the scene was
that he had realized the danger and they had not. But he could claim no
credit for that. He was trained in electrical matters and would have
been a poor wireless man, indeed, if he had not detected the danger.

The only question was whether or not he had done his part well after
discovering the danger. Roy thought the matter over carefully. He could
not see that there was anything else he could have done. And that
belief made him feel better pleased about the matter.

He didn’t want the passengers to consider him a hero when he wasn’t a
hero. But, on the whole, Roy was glad the passengers knew about the
matter. He wanted to get acquainted with some of them and the incident
would make that an easy matter. But most of all he was glad that the
story had been told before the captain. It was worth the embarrassment
he had suffered to know that the captain had had to listen to the
story whether he wanted to or not, and to hear what some of the ship’s
officers, including the chief engineer, thought about the matter. Yes,
that certainly was worth while. Roy felt that he could almost forgive
the purser for telling the story, since the captain had had to listen
to it.

Suddenly a thought came to Roy. He pondered a moment over it, then
called out in astonishment and mortification. “Why, you old chump!” he
said to himself, “that’s the very reason the purser told the story--so
that the captain _would_ have to listen to it. If the purser had gone
to him with an explanation, the captain would have shut him off as he
did me when I tried to explain. All done for your own good, and here
you were doubting the purser and feeling angry at him for trying to
help you. I guess the captain was right when he called you a wireless
infant. Thank goodness, I haven’t had a chance to say anything to the
purser, or I’d probably have proved to him that I was a wireless fool
as well. You bet I won’t forget this lesson--or the purser’s kindness,
either.”

Presently the sober look disappeared from Roy’s face and he began to
chuckle. “Slick, wasn’t it?” he muttered. “I wonder if the old dragon
realizes that the purser put one over on him.”

If the captain did realize it, he gave no hint of the fact. His
treatment of both the purser and Roy altered not a whit. But Roy was
interested to note that before they had been afloat twenty-four hours
the captain’s steward stepped into the wireless house again, and after
some conversation casually asked for any news Roy had picked up.

Roy had plenty of news to give him. The Gulf coast was fairly dotted
with wireless stations. Brownsville, Port Arthur, Galveston, New
Orleans, Savannah, Key West, Pensacola, Fort Crockett, Fort Dodd, and
numerous other Marconi or government stations fringed the great body of
water, some of which would always be within reach of the _Lycoming_.
The United States Navy station at Guantanamo, the Marconi stations
at Miami, Jacksonville, Cape Hatteras, and Virginia Beach, the navy
stations at Charleston and the Diamond Shoals light off Hatteras, and
the army stations at Fort Moultrie and Fortress Monroe, were only a
few of the land stations that would likewise be within communicating
distance at some period of the journey. Ship stations by the dozen
would be within call during the voyage, for there was a constant
procession of ships up and down the Atlantic coast--ships sailing to or
from home ports along the ocean and the Gulf, vessels for Mexico, and
Central America, and Cuba, and steamers bound for South American ports
or destinations on the Pacific via the Panama Canal.

Some of the stations would always be within reach even though two
hundred and fifty to three hundred miles was about the limit of
Roy’s calling distance by day. When the atmosphere interfered or
thunder-storms were kicking up an aerial disturbance, he was sometimes
unable to talk more than half that distance. Even the slightest things
made a difference--the temperature, the nocturnal dampness, the contour
of the earth when talking to land stations, the level spaces over
the ocean. At the outside he could not talk more than three hundred
miles by day. But at night, when he got “freak” workings, he could
sometimes send a thousand miles and receive twice that distance. On
more than one occasion Roy had already distinctly caught the Arlington
weather signals, here in the Gulf, and once he had picked up messages
sent by the Tropical Radio Telegraph Company, from its station on the
Metropolitan tower in New York to its station in New Orleans.

On the second night out Roy sat at his post, listening in. Voices were
coming through the air from every direction. It was a wonderful night
for radio communication and Roy could hear farther than he had ever
heard before. Behind him he could distinguish both the Marconi stations
at Galveston and at Fort Crockett, farther up the island. The army post
at Brownsville was relaying a message from El Paso to the Panama Canal.
Roy wondered if it would carry successfully over that great stretch of
land and water. The Charleston Navy Yard was flinging out a call for
the destroyer _Mills_, and finally an answer came back from a point
near Key West. The _Mills_ was ordered to proceed to Guantanamo to
coal. The navy operator at Key West was talking to Havana. Behind him
Roy could hear the Mallory liner _Lampasas_ sending private messages
for passengers. The Ward liner _Morro Castle_ was talking somewhere
in the mist to the eastward. The Clyde liner _Cherokee_, off to the
southeast, was calling for her sister ship _Comanche_. Along the
South Atlantic coast regular processions of ships were moving in two
lines, some going north, others coming south, and all talking at once.
Distinctly Roy heard the call signals and answers of the Ward liner
_Monterey_, the Mallory liner _Comal_, the Standard Oil boat _Caloria_,
the Red D liner _Caracas_, the Savannah liners _City of Atlanta_ and
_City of Augusta_, and the _Florida_ of the Texas Company. He could
even hear, far to the north, the Old Dominion liner _Jamestown_, and
the Merritt-Chapman Wrecking Company’s _Rescue_.

But what most interested Roy was the nightly news-letter flung abroad
at the usual hour by the New York Marconi station. It was easily twelve
hundred miles away, yet Roy could hear every word distinctly. The
captain would be interested in this, and Roy picked up a pencil and
jotted down the night’s news: “Three-thousand-peasants-are-massacred-
by-Hungarian-Reds--stop--Soviet-guard-shoots-and-hangs-revolters-at-
Oldenburg--stop--Hungarian-Reds-beat-back-Czechs--stop--Pressburg-
threatened--stop--Wilson-may-sail-in-ten-days--stop--Premiers-near-
agreement--stop--Wilhelm-likely-to-escape-trial-envoys-think--stop--
Punishment-of-ex-Kaiser-is-dead-issue--stop--French-will-try-Cavell--
betrayer--stop--Hurley-asks-six-hundred-millions-to-finish-ships--
stop--Says-Burleson-makes-United-States-pay-for-strike--stop--
Telegraphers’-leader-says-people-must-stand-cost--stop--Victor-Berger-
says-chaos-ahead--stop--Prosecution-of-socialists-will-bring-direct-
action--stop--Britain-stirred-by-rumors-of-modified-peace--stop--
Nicaraguans-ask-United-States-to-send-troops-to-prevent-threatened-
invasion-from-Costa-Rica-by-army-now-massed-on-border--stop--First-
state-will-ratify-national-suffrage-amendment-this-week--stop.” Then
came the stock-market report and the baseball scores.

Roy took down every word. Hardly had he finished writing when a sound
struck his ears that momentarily stopped his heart.

“SOS,” came the signal, clear and distinct. “SOS, SOS.” It was the
international signal of distress.

Other ears than Roy’s caught the cry for help and in a second a hundred
operators were fairly yelling encouragement through the air.

“Who are you? Where are you? Give us your location? What is the matter?”

It was a ship Roy did not know. She lay well out in the Atlantic, and
not in the usual steamship lanes. She had broken her shaft and was
wallowing helplessly, unable to make repairs. The barometer was going
down and she wanted to be helped to port. The nearest ships were those
in the west-bound lanes for transatlantic liners. Presently Roy heard
the navy station at Arlington asking a west-bound liner to go to the
ship’s assistance.

Just as Roy was about to lay aside his receivers for the night he heard
the _Lycoming’s_ call, clear as a bell. It was Reynolds, the wireless
man he had met in Galveston. Reynolds’ ship was off Jacksonville. He
reported the weather as threatening and the sea rising, with a storm
coming from the north.

“Where are you?” asked Reynolds.

“In the Florida Straits,” replied Roy.

“You’ll catch it sometime to-morrow probably,” flashed back Reynolds.
“Good luck to you. Look me up when you reach New York. Good-night.”

It was now quite late. Unless the captain was on watch, he was
doubtless asleep. Roy was in doubt as to what he should do, but finally
decided to take the news to the officer in charge. He was the proper
official to know about the approaching storm. Roy copied down his
weather-report and the night’s news-letter, and made a note of the SOS
call and the communication from Reynolds. Then he sought the bridge.

Mr. Young was in charge, the captain having retired for the night.
“Thank you, Mr. Mercer,” he said, as Roy gave him the despatches.
Then, glancing them over, he went on, “So it’s getting rough off
Jacksonville, eh? I knew we were heading into a storm. The barometer
has been falling steadily. It probably won’t be anything more than a
gale at this season. We’ll be in it by noon and perhaps earlier. I am
glad to know about it, and I thank you for troubling to inform me.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Roy. “I should think every navigator would be
more than glad to have wireless service on his ship. Think of that
helpless liner out in the Atlantic with a storm coming up. Where would
she be if she couldn’t have summoned help? I can’t understand how
anybody can feel the way Captain Lansford does.”

“There are some things past understanding, Mr. Mercer. But perhaps
things may happen that will change the captain’s mind about wireless
telegraphy. Good-night.”

Roy went to his room and to bed, wondering if he would ever have the
chance suggested by Mr. Young, of changing the captain’s attitude
toward him and his work. He thought of the ship out on the ocean,
lying helpless in the path of the coming storm, and wondered if the
opportunity he longed for would come with that same storm. He was a
long time getting to sleep. Finally his eyelids closed, but before they
did Roy was dimly conscious that the ship was rolling more than she had
since he had been a member of her crew.




CHAPTER XI A VISIT TO CHINATOWN


It was long after daybreak when Roy awoke. He sat up on the edge of his
bunk to look at his timepiece, but almost immediately fell back on his
pillow. Something was wrong with him. Roy had had very few illnesses in
his life and he did not at first know what ailed him. He felt sick all
over. He heard the ship’s bell strike and realized that if he wanted
any breakfast he would have to hustle. But at the thought of food he
felt worse than ever. In fact, it seemed as though he never wanted to
take food again. The very idea of it made him feel worse. Then he knew
what was the matter. He was seasick.

Presently he got to his feet and punched the call bell. Then he lay
down again. He became conscious that the ship was rolling violently--at
least the motion seemed violent to Roy, though a seasoned sailor would
have smiled at the idea. Sometimes a lurch of the ship almost threw Roy
out of bed. The wind was howling about the wireless house. Things were
rattling and creaking under its pressure. Rain was falling. Roy was
sure that the ship was in the midst of a terrible and dangerous storm.
He wondered if he were needed. Then he wondered if he would be able to
get to his operating table. He felt so sick that he was sure he was
going to die.

Then Sam, the steward, appeared. Roy could hardly believe his eyes when
he saw the venerable darky enter his room smiling. Roy didn’t see how
anybody could smile in such a storm. And he said so to Sam.

“Lawd bless you, Mr. Mercer,” said Sam. “Dis yere ain’t no great storm.
It’s only a little gale. Wait till you sees one o’ dem September
exenoxtail storms. Den you’ll know what a real storm am like.”

Roy felt relieved. “I feel sick enough for anything, Sam,” he said. “I
don’t believe even an equinoctial storm could make me feel any worse.
Can you do anything for me, Sam?”

“Lawd bless you, Mr. Mercer, I’ll fix you up in no time. Jess you stay
in bed till I gets back,” and Sam disappeared through the doorway.
In a few moments he reappeared, with a lemon and some concoction he
had mixed in a glass. Roy gulped the mixture down and presently felt
somewhat better. After a time he rose and dressed, but he did not go
near the breakfast table. From time to time he sucked at the lemon,
as Sam had told him to do. By the middle of the forenoon he felt much
better. When the dinner call came, he decided that he would go down to
the dining-room and perhaps eat some soup.

He expected to be teased a little, but there was almost no one to
plague him. Chair after chair was empty, only a few seasoned voyagers
having ventured to the dining-room. The purser was at his table,
smiling and jolly as usual. It cheered Roy merely to look at him. The
captain was not present and Roy knew he was pacing the bridge. However
much he disliked Captain Lansford, Roy knew that the commander would be
found at his post of duty in time of stress. But little did Roy realize
that before his time came to leave the _Lycoming_ he would see the day
when, of all the things for which he was grateful, he was most thankful
because Captain Lansford was in command of the _Lycoming_.

By nightfall the ship had run past the storm, and by the next day the
wind was again blowing at a normal velocity, though the water continued
to be rough.

The passengers rapidly recovered from their seasickness, and left their
staterooms. Again the decks were peopled with a jolly throng. On the
sheltered side of the ship and on the after-deck, passengers sat in
intimate little groups chatting, or in solitary aloofness, noses buried
in the latest novels or magazines. Steamer chairs were set in rows,
with indolent old ladies, corpulent men, and weary invalids reclining
at ease in them. In the saloon little knots of passengers were gathered
about tables playing cards. Games were played on the open parts of
the deck, such as ring toss, and bean bags. Altogether it was a happy
company aboard the _Lycoming_.

As is always the case at sea, formalities were forgotten. Acquaintances
were easily made and before the voyage was half over everybody
knew everybody else. Roy profited by the opportunity and soon was
on speaking terms with most of the passengers. His uniform was his
introduction, and after what the purser had said about him, everybody
was eager to make his acquaintance.

It was a real opportunity for Roy to cultivate social grace, and he
realized this. Keen of observation, he had long ago noted the great
differences in manner in different persons. Some, by their pleasing
way, he saw, charmed and attracted all with whom they came in contact,
like the purser. Others, like the captain, seemed to repel and offend
by their austerity of mien and deportment. Aboard ship Roy met all
types of people and had abundant opportunity to study them and
analyze the effects produced by their conduct. Most of all he studied
the purser. Everybody liked the purser, and Roy saw that this was
invaluable to Mr. Robbins. He could deal with more passengers in an
hour than some men could handle in double that time. And he could
obtain favors that were denied others. The secret of Mr. Robbins’
power, Roy came to believe, lay in his kindliness of heart, coupled
with his invariable cheerfulness and his unimpeachable integrity. Roy
came to understand that true courtesy is merely good-will expressed
through kindness. The more he studied people the more clearly Roy saw
that a man’s manners have much to do with his success or failure in
life.

“If that’s the case,” thought Roy, “a fellow’s a fool not to cultivate
a pleasing way. What’s the use of working hard to learn a trade or
a profession or a business and then lose half the advantage of that
training by lack of proper manners?”

Thereafter he consciously strove to make people like him. That was not
a difficult task, for Roy was good-looking and both witty and sunny in
disposition. Before long he found himself a general favorite. In a way
that troubled Roy, for passengers persisted in coming to the wireless
house, which was contrary to regulations. He had to inform visitors
that unless they came on business he could not allow them in the
wireless house. As Roy was popular and everybody aboard was interested
in him and his work, passengers began to send messages merely that they
might see something of the wireless house. The result was a tremendous
increase in business--an increase which the Marconi people were not
slow to notice. Thus, although he did not realize it, Roy was already
profiting by his effort to cultivate charm of manner.

Swiftly the days went by. The weather continued fair and pleasant. Roy
remained busy. He had many messages to send for passengers and at night
he continued to take the time and weather signals and to jot down the
day’s news for the captain. Most of all he loved to listen in at night
when the air was vibrant with wireless voices. Every night he talked to
Reynolds, and soon felt as though they were old acquaintances. Behind
the _Lycoming_, Roy soon discovered, were some of the vessels he had
visited with the purser in Galveston. He had many a conversation with
them before finally the _Lycoming_, just at dusk, drew abreast of the
signal station at Sandy Hook, and a string of flags was hoisted above
the _Lycoming_ announcing her safe arrival. The flags came fluttering
down and Roy knew that the marine observer was probably already
sending out the news that the _Lycoming_, with cotton aboard, had
arrived from Galveston. It was dark when the ship reached quarantine,
and dropped her anchor just off the Staten Island shore to await a
medical inspection in the morning.

The quarantine officials were astir early and the _Lycoming_ was soon
on her way up the harbor. Roy had no work to do, and he came out on
deck to enjoy the stirring scene. Mr. Young was in command, and he
invited Roy to join him on the bridge. Roy was amazed at the great
number of ships in the harbor. Never had he seen anything like so many.
Ordinarily the waters of the upper bay hold but few ships at anchor.
Now there were vast fleets of anchored ships. Usually, Roy knew, tramp
ships were almost the only vessels to be found anchored in the harbor.
But now he saw dozens of fine, large ships that were quite evidently
liners, lying in one or another of the various anchorages. He could
make out the names of some of the vessels, so that he was sure he was
right.

“How does it come,” he asked the first officer, “that these liners lie
here at anchor instead of at their piers?”

“Because some other ships occupy their piers,” explained Mr. Young.
“The harbor has never seen such congestion as exists now. It is
relatively as crowded as Fifth Avenue on a sunny afternoon. So many
ships now come to this port that it is necessary to have a marine
traffic squad, just as they have a traffic squad ashore to direct
land traffic. You have seen traffic policemen at the street corners
holding up traffic and sending it this way and that. If you keep your
eyes open, you will see the same thing out here on the water. Dozens
of great liners are arriving daily with soldiers and war supplies and
the usual freight of commerce. Docking space gave out long ago, so the
traffic squad regulates the matter of unloading, assigning different
docks to the different ships as fast as there is room. Sometimes there
are more than 150 great ships lying at anchor at one time. Many of
these are craft built since the war began. Every night a number of
ships arrive off quarantine, just as we did, and they must anchor there
until examined by the officials. The doctors get to work at six-thirty
and the early part of the day is a pretty busy time in this harbor.
Every morning there’s a regular procession of ships steaming up to
their piers from quarantine.”

Roy looked behind him and saw several ships following the _Lycoming_.
There were four ahead of the _Lycoming_, but he had not realized what
a string of incoming ships there was. Suddenly a swift little craft
came darting across the water, straight toward the advancing line of
ships.

“There’s one of the patrol boats,” said Mr. Young. “Probably it has
directions for some of us.”

The little boat, which was one of seven patrol boats directing the
traffic, steamed directly toward the ship immediately ahead of the
_Lycoming_, turned when abreast of her, and shot close to her side. A
traffic official shouted something through a megaphone and waved his
hand toward the statue of Liberty. At once the big ship swung toward
Bedloe’s Island, and in a few minutes Roy heard her chain rattle as
she dropped her anchor. Meantime, the patrol craft had sped past the
_Lycoming_, the man with the megaphone directing Mr. Young to proceed
to his accustomed dock.

“I’m glad they aren’t going to hold us up,” said Mr. Young, as he
rejoined Roy. “We might swing at anchor for a week if we ever got into
that crowd.”

He waved his hand toward the western anchorage, where a great fleet of
ships tugged at their anchor chains.

“Why, there are dozens and dozens of them,” exclaimed Roy. “They seem
to be anchored in groups.”

“Yes. That is to make room for ships to pass. You see there is one
big group between Robbins’ Reef light and the Jersey shore. That is
an anchorage for general cargoes. Then you notice a great pier built
out from the Jersey shore and the narrow channel leading to it. Just
north of that channel a little way is the anchorage ground for ships
loaded with explosives. It is just below Black Tom Island, where that
awful explosion occurred during the war. Above that point the anchorage
extends north of Ellis Island. Altogether that’s a space several miles
long, and it’s just jammed with ships. Over on the Brooklyn side and
even far up the Hudson the anchorages are crowded.”

“I’m glad I have seen this,” said Roy. “It is wonderful.”

“You may well be glad. We used to think New York harbor was a pretty
busy place before the war, but it was dead compared with the present
conditions. I don’t know what we’ll do if traffic continues to increase
the way it has been increasing the last few months. The only thing
that saves the harbor from utter confusion now is the traffic squad.
Its power is absolute and we have to do exactly as the patrolmen say.
So they keep excellent order and prevent all sorts of trouble. But I
tell you they are strict. It doesn’t take much of an offense to bring a
fine on a ship captain, and for a serious offense he may even lose his
papers.”

Just then Captain Lansford came on the bridge with a despatch in his
hand. “I will take charge, Mr. Young,” he said. Then, turning to Roy,
he said brusquely, “Send this.”

Roy took the despatch from the captain and returned to the wireless
house. There was the usual number of messages to send for the
passengers, telling of a safe arrival, and by the time Roy came out of
the wireless house again, the _Lycoming_ lay snug in her dock. Hatches
and ports were open, and the derrick booms were creaking as they
hoisted from the hold great slingfuls of trunks and other baggage. The
purser, as usual at such a time, was buried under an avalanche of work,
and Roy spent the day helping him. He had formed a real affection for
the purser, and was rapidly making himself invaluable to that official.
Having assisted him once before, Roy was now somewhat familiar with the
purser’s work. The thought that he was really helping his friend gave
Roy genuine pleasure. He was so busy and so preoccupied that he did
not notice the clamor and racket on the pier, as the ship was unloaded,
or hear the roar and clatter from the water-front.

Night hushed the discordant noises of the day as effectually as though
some one had clamped a lid down on them. The streets were already
deserted and quiet when Mr. Robbins threw down his pen and heaved a
deep sigh.

“There,” he exclaimed, “that’s a good day’s work--a mighty good day’s
work. And the Bible tells us the laborer is worthy of his hire. Get
your cap, Roy, and we’ll get something to eat. No ship’s grub for us
to-night, eh?”

They went ashore, caught an up-town subway train in a few minutes, and
got out at Worth Street. A short walk took them through an Italian
district to Chinatown. Roy had never visited Chinatown before. He was
so much interested in what he saw that the purser could hardly drag him
away from the shop-windows. There were wonderful pieces of needlework
on display, intricate and weird carvings of ivory and ebony, curious
little trinkets and ornaments of jade and semiprecious stones, vases
little and large, brass trays and ornaments, and a thousand other
unfamiliar and strange objects. But what interested Roy more than
anything else was the strange foods displayed in the provision shops.
There were dried fish, dried fowls, dried meats, curious candies made
of some gummy substance covered with queer little seeds, or dried
orange-peel or other vegetable growths covered with a coating of sugar.
There were Chinese cabbages, unlike any cabbage Roy had ever seen,
for instead of being round or flat, they were tall and urn-like, or
even cylindrical. There were curious creamy-white little things in big
baskets that the purser said were bamboo shoots, and water-chestnuts
that looked like lily bulbs.

The purser led the way to a restaurant in Pell Street. Its atmosphere
was so strange and foreign that Roy was almost startled. Heavy,
curiously wrought hangings decorated the walls. Great screens,
ornamented with elaborate needlework, stood here and there. Dragons and
curious birds were wrought on them. Grilles of elaborately carved ebony
divided the dining-room into smaller compartments. The little tables
and the stools about them were of teak-wood or ebony, elaborately
carved by hand, and very heavy. Lustrous banners with heavy dragons
on them hung here and there. Slit-eyed Chinese stood silent and
inscrutable in their curious dress, ready to take orders. The odor that
pervaded the place was unlike anything Roy had ever smelled. Partly it
was the odor of cooking, partly of incense, partly of tobacco, though
Roy was not able to analyze it. All he knew was that it was as unusual
and striking as the bizarre decorations.

“Lots of people would not think of eating in a Chinese restaurant,”
said the purser as they seated themselves, “but such a prejudice is
unreasonable and foolish. Chinese cooks are clean. They are probably
the best cooks in the world, not even excepting the French, who have
such a great reputation. You see China swarms with a population really
too great to be supported by the country’s resources. So the greatest
thing in a Chinaman’s existence is the food problem. Everybody learns
to cook, and to make delectable dishes out of almost nothing. In all
the world there are no more delicious foods than some the Chinese
make. As you probably don’t know what to order, I am going to take the
liberty of ordering for us both.”

The purser called the waiter and ordered chicken omelette, fried
noodles, a little chop suey, a ham omelette, some preserved kumquats,
and some Chinese candy. He told the waiter to bring the dishes one at
a time so that they would be warm. While the cook was preparing the
order, the waiter brought two bowls of rice and a pot of tea, with
sugar and some tiny cups. Mr. Robbins filled the cups and they sampled
the beverage. Roy had never tasted such delicious tea. Nor had he
ever seen rice cooked like that in the bowls. It was perfectly cooked
yet dry and flaky. It was not at all the mushy stuff he had eaten in
American homes.

“The Chinese,” explained Mr. Robbins, “eat rice just as we do bread.
Most of their dishes are more or less greasy or soupy, and the rice
takes up the gravy very nicely. Chinamen eat it with chop-sticks, and
they will bring you some if you want to try it. But I suspect you will
make much better weather of it if you use a fork.”

Roy laughed. “A fork for mine,” he said.

Presently the waiter brought a ham omelette. Mr. Robbins cut it in half
and served it. “Bring the chop suey, too,” he said.

That was fetched and they fell to. But Roy hadn’t eaten more than two
bites before he stopped and looked at the purser.

“That omelette is the best thing I ever tasted,” he commented.

“Wait till the chicken omelette comes,” smiled the purser.

They ate the ham omelette and nibbled at the chop suey as a side-dish.
Then the waiter brought the chicken omelette and the fried noodles.
The chicken omelette wasn’t so much unlike a good chicken potpie, but
it was more delicious than any chicken dish Roy had ever eaten. The
noodles were curious little slivers of dough fried crisp and covered
with gravy. They were good, too. But Roy was sure he had never tasted
anything so delicious as the two omelettes. He ate until he could hold
no more.

When they left the restaurant Roy thanked the purser for the treat.
“I’m obliged to you for the food,” he said, “but I’m more obliged to
you for showing me something new. I might never have known about the
Chinese way of cooking if it hadn’t been for this experience.”

“Good!” smiled the purser. “I’m glad you put it that way. Lots of
people lose a great deal of fun and happiness in this life because
they aren’t willing to try new things. The older we get, the worse our
prejudices become.”

Roy’s face grew serious at once. “I should say so,” he answered. “Look
at Captain Lansford. Why, his ship is a thousand times safer because he
has a wireless outfit. Yet he doesn’t like it at all. It hardly seems
possible that anybody can be so unreasonable.”

“It does not. Yet the world is full of such foolish prejudices.”

“Well,” sighed Roy, “I hope that I’ll never get like that.”

“You won’t if you try not to, Roy. But you may if you don’t. You know
eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. And that applies to mental
liberty as well as political.”

They walked slowly back to the ship, passing again through the lower
end of the down-town Italian district. Roy was instantly attracted
by the names on the shop fronts and the objects offered for sale,
particularly the oddly-shaped and highly-colored candies and pastry.

“My, but there are a lot of Italians here,” said Roy. “Almost enough to
make a city by themselves.”

The purser smiled. “Do you know what is the largest Italian city in the
world, Roy?” he asked.

“Rome, I suppose,” answered Roy.

“New York City,” said the purser. “There are more Italians here than
Rome or any other city in Italy ever saw at one time.”

Roy expressed his surprise.

“And there are more Jews here than ever inhabited Jerusalem,” continued
the purser. “New York has more than 7,000,000 population--more people
than most of our states contain--and among those millions are a
great number of colonies of foreigners, each large enough to make
a good-sized city. Some day we’ll make a trip through the Italian
sections and try some Italian cooking.”

“Fine,” said Roy. “That’ll be my treat.”

When they reached the ship the purser said good-night. Roy went to the
wireless house and caught the weather-report and listened to some of
the messages scudding through the air. But when he was ready to retire
he was as wide-awake as he would have been at noon, although it was
past midnight. The unaccustomed amount of tea he had drunk had made him
sleepless. It was a beautiful, warm June night, and Roy went out and
sat on the deck to watch the stars and the twinkling lights ashore and
in the harbor.

How long Roy sat there he did not know, but it was some time after
two bells, and the harbor was as quiet as it ever becomes, when Roy
heard the sound of a motor-boat. There was nothing unusual in that
and Roy would have given the matter no thought had not the engine
suddenly stopped. The sound seemed to have been straight out from
the _Lycoming’s_ pier. Roy at once thought that the little craft was
suffering from engine trouble. He wondered where and what it was and
if help were needed. Thinking he might be able to see its lights,
Roy walked to the stern and sat down on a life-raft. No lights were
visible. That did not seem strange, as Roy’s vision was obstructed on
either hand by a long pier shed. Near the Jersey shore a ferry-boat,
brilliantly illuminated, was drawing into its slip, and Roy almost
forgot the motor-boat as he watched the distant ferry.

Then suddenly he sat straight up with a start. The sound of oars came
to his ears. They were dipping slowly and gently in the water and
ordinarily such a slight sound would have been indistinguishable.
But the silent, empty pier sheds acted as sounding-boards and both
magnified and reflected the sound. Roy’s first thought was that the
passengers in the motor-boat had abandoned their craft and were coming
ashore in a rowboat. He wondered how they would make a landing, for
the doors of the pier sheds were tightly closed. Probably, thought
Roy, they see the lights of the _Lycoming_ and hope to get aboard
her. The dock between the piers was so dark that Roy could hardly see
anything in it. He strained his eyes but could not make out the boat.
He was about to call out to it, for he was certain that it was in the
dock, when it occurred to him that if the occupants of the boat were
in distress they would make their presence known. Then, for the first
time, he thought of thieves.

Just then the glowing ferry-boat came directly astern of the
_Lycoming_; and, although it was on the other side of the river, the
broad reflection of its lights in the water, like a ribbon of gold,
showed Roy the boat he was looking for. He could see it but dimly, yet
he was certain that the craft below him was the motor-boat itself.
Three men were in it. One was carefully propelling it with long oars,
and the attitudes of the two others showed that great caution was being
observed in the approach.

Roy sat still as an image. He was now fully convinced that the men in
the boat were thieves. What they were after he could not conceive. They
could not hope to get aboard the _Lycoming_, for a sailor was on watch.
Nor could they hope to break into a pier shed. Roy crushed down his
desire to raise an alarm and sat silent, determined to discover what
they were up to before he made any move. If the _Lycoming_ were their
object, he would thwart them. He had not long to wait. Very cautiously
the motor-boat crept near the _Lycoming_. A long, low whistle was
heard and all was still again. Then Roy heard an indistinct, guarded
sound, like the careful raising of a window, followed by a low whistle.
The motor-boat stole cautiously to the very side of the _Lycoming_.
Roy crept to the edge of the deck, in order to keep the boat under
observation, and peered down. Distinctly he could see that one of the
lower ports was open and two heads were thrust out. Then the heads
disappeared and a moment later a small bale of something came slowly
through the port and was seized by the men in the motor-boat. They
stowed it away in the boat, then turned again to the open port.

Roy had seen enough. It was time for action. But what should he do?
Roy’s mind worked like lightning. If he raised an outcry the thieves
would start their engine and be off while their confederates on the
_Lycoming_ would slip back to their quarters. If the thieves were to be
caught, it must be done by stealth. But how? In a second Roy thought of
the wireless.

Cautiously drawing back from the edge of the deck, he tiptoed rapidly
to the wireless house, threw open his switch, and sent forth a call.

“KIN--KIN--KIN--WNA,” flashed his signal through the night.

Almost immediately came back the answer, “WNA--III--GA.” It was the
police boat _Patrol_ replying to Roy’s frantic call.

“This is the Confederated liner _Lycoming_, pier 14, North River,”
rapped out Roy as fast as he could work his key. “Thieves in motor-boat
taking stuff from confederates in the ship. What shall we do?”

“Watch. Raise no alarm until we enter the slip.”

It was no great distance to Harbor A Station and Roy knew that the
_Patrol_ would be at the end of the slip in a short time. He tiptoed
down the ladder and hurried to the officers’ quarters. All was in
darkness. He tried the captain’s door. It was locked. Roy dared not
rap on it for fear of alarming the thieves. Mr. Young’s door was also
fastened. But the second officer’s door opened under Roy’s hand. The
occupant was snoring like a fat hog. Roy shook him by the shoulder.

“Mr. Adams,” he said softly. “Wake up. Thieves are at work below.”

The second officer was on his feet in a flash. “Where?” he demanded,
rushing toward the door.

“Wait!” said Roy. “If we want to catch them, we mustn’t make a sound.
Some of the crew are passing stuff out of an open port to men in a
motor-boat. I’ve called the police and they will be here in a minute.
They’ll pull into the slip and catch the men in the boat and we’ll grab
the men on the ship. If you have a flash-light, put it in your pocket.
We’ll need it down in the dark hold.”

“You watch for the police boat,” said Mr. Adams. “I’ll get some
sailors and be ready to grab those fellows in the hold.”

Roy stole to the deck and cautiously watched the dark forms below.
His heart beat so loud he was afraid the thieves would hear him.
Seconds seemed like minutes. Time seemed actually to stand still, so
fearful was he that the thieves would get away before the police came.
Anxiously he kept glancing at the end of the slip, but the _Patrol_
did not come. Meantime, the motor-boat was loaded almost to capacity.
If the police did not arrive soon it would be too late. Suddenly Roy
became aware that a rowboat was stealing along the other side of the
slip. It was more than half-way in before Roy discovered it. The
boatmen rowed with muffled oars, but came on swiftly. Were they more
thieves? Roy did not know what to do. It was useless to call the police
again. Why didn’t they hurry?

Meantime the rowboat came silently on. It stole along the far side of
the slip until nearly opposite the _Lycoming_, then shot toward the
motor-boat. Roy was in an agony of uncertainty. He could do nothing but
watch and pray for the police to make haste.

Then suddenly a great light flashed from the bow of the rowboat and
fell full on the men in the motor-boat. “Hands up or we’ll shoot,”
came a stern warning.

The rowboat was full of policemen. The thieves hesitated a second, then
raised their hands above their heads. The rowboat glided alongside
the motor-boat, the thieves were skilfully searched for weapons,
handcuffed, and transferred to the police boat.

Meantime an uproar arose within the ship’s hold. There were curses,
cries, and blows. But the noise soon subsided, for two policemen leaped
through the open port and helped to subdue the thieves on board. The
latter were dragged to the deck and there recognized as the men who had
joined the crew at Galveston. The noise had aroused everybody aboard.
Captain Lansford came running down the stairway, inquiring about the
disturbance.

“We discovered these men passing stuff out to some thieves in a
motor-boat,” explained Mr. Adams, “and while the police attended to the
fellows outside, we grabbed those in the hold.”

Roy, coming down the stairway, heard every word. His heart flamed with
indignation. Mr. Adams had not even mentioned him, but had taken full
credit for the capture. Roy was not seeking for glory, but under the
circumstances he did want the captain to know the truth. He was almost
minded to speak out, especially when the captain said, “Excellent, Mr.
Adams. These fellows are probably smugglers, and if that proves to be
the case, you have saved me a lot of trouble. I shall remember this.”

That was high praise from Captain Lansford, and Roy’s face burned with
indignation as he listened. Wisely, however, he held his peace. A
moment later he was glad he had. The roundsman in charge of the police
came on deck and asked for the wireless man. When Roy was pointed out,
he said, “Young man, I want to thank you for the good judgment you
showed. This is a gang we’ve been after for months, and they would
have given us the slip again if there had been the least alarm. We are
obliged to you and your captain ought to be more so.”

Roy’s face flushed again, but this time for a far different reason.
His heart beat with joy. But all the joy faded when the captain, after
learning the truth, turned to him and said sternly, “Mr. Mercer, in a
case of this sort you should have notified the commanding officer at
once. Your failure to do so is inexcusable.”




CHAPTER XII A CLOSE CALL


Poor Roy! No matter how hard he tried, it seemed, the captain would
still be dissatisfied with him. To Roy the captain’s harsh remark
seemed the very essence of injustice. He did not desire praise. He
neither expected nor wished any special consideration. But he did
desire just recognition of his services. If the captain was truthful
in telling Mr. Adams that the capture of the thieves had saved him,
Captain Lansford, from trouble, then, it seemed to Roy, the captain
should have thanked him instead of reprimanding him. Bitter, indeed,
were Roy’s thoughts.

Again it was the kind-hearted purser who helped Roy in his difficulty.
Like everybody else on board, Mr. Robbins was aroused by the hubbub. He
threw on some clothes and hurried to the deck to see what was wrong.
There he speedily learned about the capture of the thieves; and Sam,
the steward, told him of Roy’s part in the affair and what the captain
had said to Roy.

The purser waited to hear no more. In another minute he was in the
wireless house. “I hear you have done a fine piece of work, Roy,” he
said. “I congratulate you. Everybody is talking about it.”

There was no joy in the face Roy turned to his friend. “Everybody but
the captain, perhaps,” he sighed. “He gave me thunder again. Is there
_anything_ that would satisfy him? I’ve worked my head nearly off on
this trip and he will barely speak to me. Now I have helped prevent a
theft and if what the captain says is true, I have helped keep him out
of difficulty. And what do I get for it? A reprimand before the entire
crew.”

“How’s that?” demanded the purser, as though it were news to him. “Tell
me what happened.”

After Roy had related the entire incident in detail, the purser said
sympathetically, “That does seem rough. But perhaps you don’t fully
understand the captain’s position, Roy. You see, he’s responsible for
any smuggling that goes on in this ship. If smuggling is done and the
revenue officers discover it, the captain may be punished. Naturally,
when he is aboard and smugglers are discovered at work, he wants to
know about it. You wouldn’t want a sailor from the forecastle sending
out important despatches for you, particularly if you were aboard,
would you?”

“You bet I wouldn’t,” promptly answered Roy. “It might get me into a
heap of trouble with the Marconi people.”

“Well, that’s exactly the way the captain saw the matter. What was
going on below might have gotten him into no end of trouble with the
government. He was here to handle the matter himself. Instead of
calling him, a boy with no experience attempts to manage the affair. Do
you see how it appeared to the captain?”

“I do,” said Roy soberly, “and I don’t blame him. But he might at least
have asked why I didn’t call him. There were reasons why I couldn’t.”

“Ah! That is another matter, Roy. That is where the captain was too
hasty. It is always dangerous to jump at conclusions. But you must
remember that the captain’s whole training has been to act and act
quick. When things go wrong on a ship or the craft is in danger, the
captain has to do something and do it quick. When you are half a
thousand miles from land and your ship is in danger of going to the
bottom, you can’t sit around and think or hold courts of inquiry, Roy.
You have to do something instantly. The captain has been doing that
for thirty years and it has become a habit. Just wait until we get in
some tight pinch. You’ll be so glad we have a captain aboard who knows
what to do and how to do it quick that you’ll forgive all the overhasty
things he does in times of quiet.”

“I’m glad you told me all this,” said Roy. “I still think the captain
was unjust, but I feel differently about the matter. And I’ll feel more
so if they prove to be smugglers instead of plain thieves.”

“I don’t believe there’s any doubt about their being smugglers. Let’s
go down and see what the police have discovered.”

They descended to the deck. The ship’s lights had been turned on and
the stolen goods hoisted aboard. They were small bales of hemp. A
policeman was breaking one of them open. Roy remembered that they had
been brought aboard with the very first of the cargo and trucked to the
forward part of the ship. Evidently they had immediately been secreted
by the four smugglers who had joined the crew and were at work in the
hold. When the policeman had torn away a part of the hemp, out rolled
a four-gallon can filled with liquid. The screw-cap was cautiously
removed and the policeman gingerly sniffed the contents. Then a smile
spread over his face.

“It’s the real stuff, Rounds,” he said, passing the can to the waiting
roundsman.

The roundsman sampled the liquor. “The very same,” he replied, “and
worth a good many dollars a gallon. If the twenty-four bales each
contain four gallons, we’ve captured two good hogsheads of whiskey for
Uncle Sam, and saved him a nice little sum of revenue. We’ll just take
the booze along with the prisoners, Captain Lansford.”

“You are welcome to both,” said the captain. “We’ll make sure there
is no more of the stuff aboard. If we find any, I’ll let you know.
Meantime, I’m obliged to you for catching these fellows.”

“You’d better thank your wireless man, Captain. They’d have got away
with the stuff sure, if it hadn’t been for him. And we’d have missed
them again.” Then, turning to Roy, the roundsman thanked him warmly.
The whiskey and the prisoners were put into the captured motor-boat,
and towing their rowboat behind them, the police went chugging back to
Harbor A.

During the days that the _Lycoming_ lay in her dock, Roy spent many an
hour in sober thought. He had had a taste of life afloat now, and more
than ever he felt sure that he wanted to be a wireless man. He wanted
to succeed. He wanted to reach the very top in his chosen calling. No
boy was ever more ambitious, ever more willing to work hard. Indeed,
the unusual quality in Roy, the thing that distinguished him from most
lads of his age, was the fact that he had early grasped the idea that
the road to success is named work.

Always Roy had done things with a will. When he played, he played hard.
When he studied, he studied hard. And after he had become interested
in radio communication, he had striven hard to perfect himself as an
operator. He understood his instruments perfectly. He could make new
parts or entire new instruments, if given the materials. He could
improvise a wireless outfit out of next to nothing. He could read
messages as fast as any human hand could send them, and he could
himself transmit with unusual speed. In short, despite his youth, Roy
was an unusually skilful wireless man.

But he lacked what most boys lack. He lacked experience of life and the
sane judgment that should go with experience. He lacked perspective.
He was impatient. He could not always see matters in their true
relationship.

It was so now as he meditated concerning his own situation. He forgot
that he had been aboard the _Lycoming_ hardly a month. He did not
realize that the captain really knew nothing concerning his training
and ability. He did not understand that before a man like Captain
Lansford could place confidence in a subordinate, that subordinate
would have to prove his entire trustworthiness. And Roy had as yet had
no real test. His work had so far been all fair-weather work.

But the thing that Roy understood least of all was the captain’s actual
attitude toward him. He thought that the captain disliked him, that he
felt spiteful toward him, that he was purposely trying to humiliate
him. Had Roy understood the actual situation he might have felt even
worse. That was, that Captain Lansford was hardly conscious that Roy
was a member of his crew. He was for some reason prejudiced against
wireless, and he had for so many years navigated his ship without the
help of wireless that he gave no more heed to the innovation than he
would to a new plank laid on the deck. Roy’s messages concerning the
weather he took lightly. He had a barometer of his own that for thirty
years had told him all he needed to know about the weather. Roy’s
news-letters were more or less diverting. But the captain had gone
without the day’s news for so many years that he had no hunger for
it, as the constant newspaper reader has. It mattered little to him
whether he ever saw a paper or not.

But it did matter about the safety and punctuality of his ship.
No mariner alive was prouder of his record, more jealous of his
reputation, or more determined to keep up his good work. Every minute
the captain had the welfare of his ship in mind. Only those who had
proved their ability did he trust. He wanted them to prove it under his
own tutelage, and his was a stern way of training recruits.

Thus it was that while Roy was fretting his heart out at what he
considered the captain’s dislike of him and injustice toward him, the
captain was hardly giving Roy a thought. He was tolerating him as he
tolerated the wireless aerial swinging aloft; both had been ordered by
the owners.

So Roy’s situation was far from being the hopeless one he considered
it. The dropping of water will wear away even the hardest stone.
Continued good service was certain to make an impression on even
Captain Lansford’s stern nature. And real service to the ship could not
fail to impress the captain deeply, since his ship’s welfare was the
captain’s one passion.

Could Roy have realized all this it would have saved him many a
heartburn. He did understand, however, that the way to make good
in any job was through efficient service. So the captain’s course,
although it hurt and angered Roy, really spurred him to greater
efforts. Some boys, in a similar situation, would have become careless
and sullen. Roy maintained his courteous, cheery manner and worked
harder than ever. He was on his mettle and was determined that he would
force recognition from his captain. And that was the very best attitude
he could have taken.

Although it is a long lane that has no turning, it seemed to Roy that
he was an extremely long time in reaching the bend in his particular
path. Things went on in the same old, uneventful way. He took messages
and sent them. He faithfully caught the weather-reports, the storm
signals, and the night’s news. And all these made about as much
impression on Captain Lansford as did the regular turning of one of the
piston-rods in the engine room. Roy saw that if he were going to make a
dent in Captain Lansford’s consciousness, he would have to do something
out of the ordinary routine. Think as he might, no opportunity seemed
to present itself. That made Roy keener than ever; and he soon reached
the point where he spent almost as much time considering the welfare
of the ship as the captain did. Everywhere and always he was asking
himself the question, “What can I do to help run the ship?”

The period of unloading and loading passed, and the _Lycoming_ started
south again, but still Roy’s opportunity did not come. He chafed under
the placid routine of his life as a captured tiger chafes in its cage.

The turn in the lane was near at hand, however, or at least there was a
slight bend directly ahead. That turn came in the form of a fog.

Bright skies and a summer sun looked down upon the _Lycoming_ as
she bade farewell to New York and sailed through the Narrows toward
the open sea. Twenty-four hours later she was buried in a fog-bank.
A great, gray, swirling mass of mist came drifting up from the
south, cutting off the vision as effectually as a curtain hides a
stage. In no time everything was wet and clammy. Rails, rigging,
window-sills,--everything was adrip with condensed moisture. A raw,
damp quality pervaded the atmosphere. The barometer was falling and the
wind rising. To make matters worse, it began to rain. At first the rain
was hardly more than a heavy mist. Then it fell in gentle drops. As
the wind rose the rain poured downward in torrents, driving in sheets
before the fitful blasts of the gale. It searched out every crack
and crevice, and came driving under doors and oozing in under tightly
closed window-sashes.

The little wireless house, on the very top of the ship, caught the full
force of wind and rain. Water came under Roy’s door in such a stream
that he had to mop it up with a rag. At first he felt little concern.
The sea had not yet risen, and the ship was not rolling much, though
occasionally it seemed to stagger before a great gust of wind. Having
gone through a pretty fair gale, Roy saw by comparison that this storm,
at least as yet, was nothing to feel disturbed about.

But when he looked out of his window, and particularly when he opened
his door a moment later, he felt instant concern. The ship was
literally swallowed up, buried in the densest bank of fog Roy had ever
known. He could not see in any direction. He could hardly make out the
ship’s nose with distinctness. Under the buffeting of the wind the
steamer creaked and groaned. Windows rattled. Everything that was not
lashed fast thumped and pounded. The fitful blasts whistled in the
rigging and shrieked and howled about the little wireless house, and
the roar of the storm almost drowned the sound of the fog-horn. If he
could not hear the deep bellow of the _Lycoming’s_ great fog-horn, he
asked himself, how could those on other ships hear it? Instantly Roy
was alarmed.

Long ago, he knew well enough, the captain had jumped into oilskins
and boots and sou’-wester and joined Mr. Young on the bridge. Into
Roy’s mind came a picture of the captain at his post, pacing from side
to side of the bridge, standing rigid, like a pointing setter, as he
listened with cupped hand to his ear, now on the port side, now on the
starboard, and all the while seeking to pierce with his eagle eyes that
vast, impenetrable, treacherous mass of fog. In his anxiety Roy pulled
on his raincoat and stepped to the deck to listen. He was blinded by
the torrent of rain and almost bowled over by the blasts of wind. He
clung to the hand-rail and listened, peering intently into the mist.
He saw nothing but fog and heard only the hoarse shriek of the ship’s
whistle and the roar of the wind. He turned back and shut the door.
Every moment he felt more fearful, for he knew there must be ships in
the vicinity. And now he began to feel grateful that Captain Lansford
was on the bridge. Every time he thought of that tall, undaunted figure
pacing the bridge, Roy felt safer.

A great desire to help in the battle with the elements came to Roy. But
what could he do? He might call other ships and get replies, but how
would that help? They could not locate the _Lycoming_ any more than he
could locate them. Besides, he didn’t know what ships to call, what
vessels were in his vicinity.

“But I can find out,” muttered Roy. “Maybe the captain would like to
know.”

When Roy became the _Lycoming’s_ wireless man, he subscribed for the
_New York Herald_. Daily the paper came to the office on the pier,
where Roy got it. When he returned from his first voyage, he secured
the back numbers that had come during his absence. And from every Issue
since he became a subscriber, Roy had clipped the shipping news and
carefully filed it away. He had had a vague notion that some day these
clippings might be useful. Already the time had come, for his clippings
contained very complete shipping news from all parts of the world. They
would tell him what ships were on the sea in his vicinity.

Roy wondered what his vicinity was. He had been busy and had not
followed the progress of the ship. But he knew she had been running at
her usual speed, which was about fifteen knots an hour. They had been
at sea but a trifle more than twenty-four hours. A little figuring told
Roy that the _Lycoming_ was perhaps 425 miles from New York. Taking
a chart from his book rack and a ruler, he calculated the distance
according to the scale and made a dot on the map. The _Lycoming_ was
off Cape Hatteras, the worst weather-breeder on our coast and the
graveyard of so many noble ships!

Then Roy did a little more figuring. He knew the _Lycoming_ was four
days from Galveston. At the same rate of speed, he found by measuring
his map, the _Lycoming_ was perhaps three and a half days from New
Orleans, a little less from Mobile, and not three days from Tampa.
Key West was a few hours more than two days distant, and Jacksonville
not much more than a day. Savannah, Charleston, and Wilmington were
within a day’s sail. Northern Cuba was only a trifle more than two days
distant, and various West Indian ports were but a few hours further,
while the Bahamas were some hours nearer. From some or all of these
ports and a few others besides, ships might have sailed in time to
bring them close to the _Lycoming_ now. Roy didn’t know the speed of
any of the ships that ply along the coast excepting the Lycoming’s, but
the captain would know. From his _Herald_ clippings Roy could learn
what ships were on the ocean.

Roy got out his clippings and jotted down the names of coastwise ships
sailing from various ports in recent days. He believed most of them
would average about the same speed as the _Lycoming_. Calculating on
that basis, he found that _El Alba_ from Galveston, the _Antilla_ from
Cuba, the _Algonquin_ from San Domingo, the _City of Columbus_ from
Savannah, the _Alabama_ from Port Arthur, and the _Merrimack_ from
Jacksonville, all bound north, were now due in the neighborhood of
Hatteras, while the _Matinicock_, bound from Baltimore to Tampico, and
the _Brunswick_, south-bound from Newport News, must be close ahead in
the fog. Now he had something to go on.

Taking down his signal book, Roy copied the call signals of each of
these vessels. Then he adjusted his receivers, threw over his switch
and began to call.

“KKL--KKL--KKL de WNA,” flashed Roy’s signal.

Again and again he repeated the call, but no answer greeted his ear.
Either _El Alba_ was not within hearing distance or else her wireless
man was not at his post.

Roy tried for the _Antilla_. “KWD--KWD--KWD de WNA,” he rapped out. Then
amid the roar of the storm he waited for an answer. “KWD--KWD--KWD de
WNA,” repeated Roy after an interval. And this time, very faintly, he
got a reply.

“KWD de WNA. Where are you?” called Roy. “Are my signals distinct?”

“WNA de KWD,” came the reply. “We must be about abreast of Cape Fear.
Your signals are very weak.”

“We don’t need to worry about the _Antilla_, then,” said Roy to
himself. “Cape Fear must be at least 175 miles south of us.”

Again Roy sent a call flashing from his instrument. “KVG--KVG--KVG de
WNA.”

The _Algonquin_ answered promptly. The signals were very faint. “WNA de
KVG. What do you want?”

“Where are you?” repeated Roy. “We’re off Hatteras.”

“We touched at Bermuda and left there three hours ago.”

“Good!” muttered Roy. “That’s another one out of the road.”

Again he consulted his list and sent forth a call. “KFA--KFA--KFA de
WNA.”

The answer came sharp and clear. “WNA de KFA. Go ahead.”

“Where are you?” asked Roy.

“Lost in the fog,” replied the operator on the _City of Columbus_. “I
don’t know where we are. We ought to be off Hatteras. Where are you?”

“Off Hatteras. Are my signals clear?”

“Very sharp.”

“We must be near each other.”

The _Alabama_ did not answer Roy’s call, and he could get neither of
the south-bound ships ahead of the _Lycoming_. But the _Merrimack_
replied so sharply that she was quite evidently near at hand.

Roy picked up his telephone and called the captain. No answer came.
Again and again Roy called. Evidently the telephone was out of order.
Roy snatched on his raincoat and cap and rushed through the rain for
the bridge. Both the captain and Mr. Young were on duty. Roy thanked
his lucky stars that the first officer was there. Going close to him
and cupping his hands about his mouth, Roy shouted in the big mate’s
ear, “_City of Columbus_ and _Merrimack_ near us. Been talking to both.
They’re looking for us.”

The first officer nodded and crossed the bridge to repeat Roy’s report
to the captain. Roy waited lest the captain should have an order. The
latter merely nodded at the mate and peered into the storm again. Roy
went back to the wireless house, clutching a hand-rail and staggering
under the wind. He noticed that the ship was moving at half speed.

Again he called the _City of Columbus_. The reply seemed no sharper
than before. But when he signaled the _Merrimack_, the answer fairly
crackled in his ears. Evidently the two boats were much nearer to one
another.

Roy’s heart began to pound furiously. Were the two ships about to
collide? Was there anything he could do to prevent it? What should he
do if they did? Sound the SOS of course and keep sending it until he
sank. That was his duty. He set his teeth. “I’ll do it,” he muttered.
“But there mustn’t be any collision. We must prevent it. But how?”

Roy’s brow wrinkled. What could he do? “If only I had a direction
finder like the one the government gave us during the spy hunt,” he
sighed, “I’d locate the _Merrimack_ quick.”

Again he called. “KQM de WNA. How are my signals now?”

“WNA de KQM. Sharper than ever. We must be very close.”

“Are you whistling?” asked Roy.

“Sure. Can’t you hear us? We can hear you.”

Roy laid down his receivers and opened the door. Faintly he heard the
booming of the _Merrimack’s_ whistle. Then it came with startling
distinctness. A third time it sounded apparently in the far, far
distance. From what direction the sound came Roy had not the slightest
idea. The fog now muffled, now magnified the sound, which seemed to
come from nowhere and everywhere.

An idea flashed into Roy’s head. He leaped back to his operating table.

“KQM de WNA,” he flashed. “Is there any way you can signal me and blow
your whistle at the same time?” he asked.

“Yes,” came the answer. “The captain and I will set our watches
together and send the two signals simultaneously. I’ll send three V’s.
Listen.”

Roy sprang up and opened his door, then leaped back to his operating
table. He clamped on his receivers, laid his watch on the table before
him, and watched it in breathless expectation.

His heart beat like a trip-hammer. The blood pounded in his brain. His
face was flushed with excitement. Somewhere out there in the fog the
great steamship was rushing toward the _Lycoming_. She might be a mile
away, she might be three hundred yards. The two might crash before ever
he heard the signals he was waiting for. Tense, rigid, yet inwardly
aquiver, Roy laid his finger on his key, ready to sound the SOS. Then
he listened. For what seemed an age he listened. The wind shrieked and
howled. The _Lycoming’s_ whistle boomed. The windows rattled. The rain
beat a tattoo on the roof. But no wireless signal greeted Roy’s ears.
He could hardly hold himself in his chair. Then it came. “V--V--V,”
went the signal. Roy noted the position of the second-hand on his watch
and waited breathlessly for the sound of the _Merrimack’s_ whistle.

One second passed--two--three--four--five.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” came the roar of the _Merrimack’s_ whistle.

“Five seconds,” said Roy. “She’s almost a mile away. Thank God.”

He pressed his key. Once more blue sparks leaped in his spark-gap.

“KQM de WNA. Five seconds difference,” he flashed. “You must be about a
mile away. Try it again.”

“WNA de KQM,” came back the answer. “Will repeat. Listen.”

Again Roy sat tense, listening for the voice that meant so much. Again
time seemed to stand still. The wind roared so loud Roy feared he might
not be able to hear the _Merrimack’s_ whistle. The rain was beating
on the roof like the crashing of a thousand drums. His own door was
banging as the ship swayed and lurched, and the rain drove in in
torrents, but Roy dared not close it. All he could do was to stare at
his watch and listen, listen, listen. He hardly dared breathe. He was
even afraid that the pounding of his heart would drown out the sounds
he was straining every sense to catch.

Suddenly something snapped in his ear. It was the _Merrimack’s_ signal,
loud as a thunderclap. Roy jumped in his seat, but kept his eyes on his
watch.

“One second--two----”

“Boom!” shrieked the _Merrimack’s_ whistle.

“KQM,” flashed Roy with trembling fingers. “Reverse. You’re almost
on us.” Then he dropped his receivers and darted into the storm.
Fearlessly he raced across the slippery deck.

“Reverse,” he cried, rushing up to the first mate. “The _Merrimack_ is
almost on us. A minute ago she was a mile away. Now she’s less than two
thousand feet.”

As though to verify Roy’s words, the hoarse bellowing roar of the
_Merrimack’s_ whistle rang out deafeningly. The first mate sprang to
the indicator and signaled to the engine room, “Reverse--full speed.”
The captain leaped for the whistle cord and the _Lycoming_ shrieked
her warning. As her propeller reversed, the _Lycoming_ shivered from
stem to stern, heeling far over, while the water about her was churned
into yeasty foam. She lost headway and began to wallow in the waves.
The captain signaled for the engines to stop.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” roared the _Lycoming’s_ whistle as she rolled from side to
side.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” came back the awful echo from the _Merrimack_.

The two ships were almost on top of each other, yet neither was visible
to the other.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” “Mmmmmmmmm!” they bellowed at each other.

The captain put his mouth to the first mate’s ear. “Can you make out
where she is?” he shouted.

“To starboard, I think, sir.”

“So do I.”

The captain beckoned to Roy. “Tell that ship to stand still while I
pass it,” he shouted.

Roy tore back to the wireless house. Water ran from him in streams as
he sat down at his table.

“KQM de WNA,” he flashed. “Tell your captain to stand still while we
pass.”

“All right--go ahead,” came the reply.

Roy scrambled back to the bridge with the message. The captain turned
the handle of the indicator. Slowly the _Lycoming_ gathered headway.

“Mmmmmmmm!” shrieked her whistle.

“Mmmmmmmm!” answered the _Merrimack_.

And now there could be no mistaking her position. She was to starboard
and close at hand. Slowly the _Lycoming_ crept around her, then went
nosing her way through the fog again. Once Roy thought he glimpsed the
_Merrimack_ but he was not sure. When her whistle was plainly astern,
Roy again shot a message to her wireless man.

“Close shave,” he flashed. “Thanks for your help.”

“You saved us from a collision, sure,” came back the answer. “Good-bye
and good luck to you.”

A few minutes later the two boats were miles apart.




CHAPTER XIII ROY GAINS ANOTHER FRIEND


On went the _Lycoming_, creeping cautiously through the fog. For hours
Roy sat at his instrument and kept in touch with the steamers he had
already talked to. Again he went over his newspaper file and searched
out all the other ships recorded that by any possibility at all could
be near the _Lycoming_. One by one he flung out their call signals.
Some he heard at a far distance, some he could not reach at all. From
time to time he talked with the _City of Columbus_, but she was still
afar off. When he had thoroughly combed the air with his wireless
signals, Roy breathed more freely. He felt certain that no steamer was
in the _Lycoming’s_ path or in her immediate neighborhood. The only
thing that remained to fear was some silent sailing ship that might
suddenly come plunging out of the mist bank. Roy hoped the time would
soon come when every ship afloat would be compelled to carry wireless.

Suddenly the fog lifted as mysteriously as it had come. The rain
ceased. The wind fell somewhat, but still continued high. Roy looked
at his watch and was surprised to see that they had been in the
fog-bank for more than eight hours. It was night. Roy had not even been
conscious that he had missed his supper. Now he was suddenly so hungry
he felt as though he could eat nails. The dining-room was closed. Roy
punched the bell for the steward. When the latter appeared, Roy said,
“Sam, could you get a fellow a bite to eat? We’ve been so busy up here
that I clean forgot to go to supper.”

Now Roy remembered that he was wet. Every garment he had on was sopping
with moisture. Puddles of water had gathered under his chair. His
operating table was soaked. His chair held a little pool of water. He
had been hot with excitement and had not been conscious of his wet
clothes. Now he threw off his clammy garments, rubbed himself briskly,
and pulled on dry clothes. Just as he finished, Sam returned with a pot
of steaming coffee, an enormous quantity of sandwiches, some freshly
boiled eggs, and a big piece of pie.

“That sure looks good to me,” said Roy, as he reached for a sandwich.
“I am much obliged to you, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it, suh. We all is mighty grateful to you fo’ what you
done fo’ de ship.” And Sam disappeared through the doorway, grinning.

Roy’s heart leaped with joy. At last he had won recognition. Then
he wondered how Sam knew about the occurrence. Perhaps he had only
guessed what had happened. Yet Roy knew that could not be. Some one
must have reported the occurrence and that some one could be only the
captain or Mr. Young. Roy was certain it was not the captain. It did
not matter to Roy who told it. Whoever did had considered Roy’s service
as meritorious or he would not have mentioned it. Roy felt that there
was no doubt that recognition had come to him. He resolved to be very
careful not to mention the matter himself lest he seem boastful.

After all, Roy asked himself, had he done anything remarkable? He had
merely made use of his knowledge of scientific principles. The captain,
who had sailed the sea for a generation and faced countless storms and
fogs without ever losing a man or a ship, had done a million times
more. That thought was both sobering and wholesome. It helped Roy to
see matters in their proper light. If anybody spoke to him now about
the matter he was in no danger of getting a “swelled head.” Compared
to the captain he felt very insignificant indeed.

It was well that these sobering thoughts came to Roy so soon, for very
shortly afterward Mr. Young stalked into the wireless house. He had
seldom visited Roy there and Roy was happy to see him. He was happier
still when Mr. Young walked over to the operating table, studied the
instruments intently, and, turning to Roy, demanded, “How did you do
that, Mr. Mercer?”

“Do what?” asked Roy.

“Find out how close that ship was? To begin with, how did you know she
was near?”

“I was never in a big fog before,” said Roy, “but I saw at once that
the ship was in a dangerous situation. I wondered what I could do to
help. I knew that at least I could figure out what ships were in the
neighborhood.”

“How?” said the mate, much interested.

“You see,” explained Roy, “I have kept a file of the _Herald_ shipping
news ever since I joined the _Lycoming_. That gave me the names of the
ships of any size that have sailed from various ports in the last few
days. I made a list of them. Here it is.”

Roy handed the list to Mr. Young, who looked at it with interest.

“Then I tried to figure out which ones would be due in our
neighborhood. I didn’t know how fast any of them traveled, but you can
bet your boots that hereafter I’m going to learn the speed of every
ship we pass. I figured they would all go at about our rate--fifteen
knots. Then I worked out the distances from all the ports south of us,
including Cuban and West Indian ports, and reckoned what ships should
be near us. When I had found that out, I began calling them. Only one
of them seemed to be very close--the _Merrimack_.”

“How could you determine that?”

“Well, I knew we were off Hatteras, and most of the ships I talked with
knew where they were. But the _Merrimack_ was lost in the fog and her
wireless man didn’t know where he was.”

“Then how did you know she was near?”

“By the wireless signals. They were so loud and distinct that I knew
she was close at hand.”

“But how could you tell that she was five thousand feet away at one
time and a little later only two thousand feet? That’s what puzzles me.
I never heard of anything like it before.”

“It was this way,” explained Roy. “When I got into touch with her
wireless man, he asked if we could hear the _Merrimack’s_ whistle. He
said they could distinctly hear ours. At least he supposed it was
ours. I listened and heard the whistle, but one time it seemed near and
again far off. I couldn’t tell from what direction the sound came.”

“Correct,” said Mr. Young. “We heard it, too. Fog does the strangest
things to sound. That’s what makes it so dangerous for ships. The
officer in charge can usually hear another ship, but sometimes he can’t
for the life of him tell what direction the sound comes from.”

“Well,” continued Roy, “it occurred to me that if the _Merrimack’s_
whistle and her wireless instrument could signal at the same instant I
could tell how far away she was.”

“How?” asked the first mate, more interested than ever.

“Why, you know, Mr. Young, electricity is instantaneous, while it takes
sound a second to travel a thousand feet. If the two signals started
together, I could time the difference between their arrivals. It was
simple enough if only the _Merrimack_ could send the signals right.”

“Now what do you think of that?” cried the mate. “How did you manage
it?”

“The _Merrimack’s_ wireless man did that. I asked him if he could. He
said he would talk to the captain and they would set their watches
together and each signal at the same instant. All I had to do was
listen to the signals and catch the time between them.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” ejaculated the first mate. “I never heard
anything like it. Is that what they teach you at the radio school?”

“I’ve never been to one,” said Roy. “All I know about wireless I picked
up myself.”

The first officer regarded Roy with astonishment. “Well, you’re a
pippin,” he said.

Roy laughed. “A little while ago,” he replied, “I thought I would
soon be a fish. When the _Merrimack_ signaled a second time and there
was only two seconds’ difference between her radio and her whistle, I
thought it was all up with us. I signaled her to reverse and raced out
to you on the bridge. You know the rest.”

“Mr. Mercer,” said the first mate, as he rose to go, “I’m going to
tell the captain every word of this. He has never thought very much of
wireless, because he always said, ‘What good is it? It won’t tell you
where you are, or where the other fellow is. And when you’re in a fog
those are the only things a skipper wants to know.’ But it seems that
in the right hands it will answer both questions.”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Roy, trying to change the subject. “Have a
bite to eat. Sam just brought me this stuff. The coffee’s piping hot.
You must be tired to death. You’ve been on the bridge more than twelve
hours straight.”

“Thanks,” said the mate. “A cup of hot coffee and a sandwich _would_
taste good, if it won’t be robbing you.”

They sat and talked for half an hour, munching sandwiches as they
conversed. When Mr. Young finally went to his own quarters, Roy felt
as though they had been friends for years. Their brief comradeship in
danger had made their friendship real. Roy felt this so keenly that as
his big visitor rose to go, he said, “I wish you would call me Roy when
we’re alone, and not Mr. Mercer. You know I’m not used to being called
Mister yet and I’d rather not have my friends use that handle when they
talk to me.”

“All right, Roy. Good-night and my hearty thanks for your help to-day.”




CHAPTER XIV A TRIP TO THE OIL FIELDS


Without further incident of note, the _Lycoming_ ran on down the
Atlantic coast, passed through the Florida Straits, and bore straight
across the Gulf to her destination. When she was safely docked and the
process of unloading well under way, the big mate one day mounted the
ladder to the wireless house.

“Good-morning, Roy,” he said. “How would you like to take a little trip
over to the oil fields? I have to go over there for the captain and I’d
be glad to take you along.”

“How far is it, and how long will it take?” inquired Roy.

“About sixty miles, I suppose. It will likely take us two hours to run
over.”

“Thank you,” said Roy. “I’ll be mighty glad to go. I have never seen an
oil-well.”

They ferried across the bay to Port Bolivar and there took a train
for the oil fields. Soon Roy was very glad indeed that he had come.
Everything was different from what he was accustomed to at home. The
country was low and level. Nowhere was there an elevation that could be
called a hill. In the open spaces he could see for miles and miles over
the flat land. His view in this direction was almost as unlimited as it
was on the ocean. To Roy, accustomed as he was to hills and mountains,
this flat land seamed monotonous and uninteresting. In places he
saw herds of cattle on these open reaches, and cowboys galloping on
horseback. For a considerable stretch Roy and his comrade rode over the
bare, level prairie. Then they came to some bits of woodland.

“I never realized before,” said Roy, “how beautiful trees are. Look at
that fine grove over there.”

“Down here they call a grove like that a motte,” rejoined Roy’s
companion with a smile.

“A what?” ejaculated Roy in astonishment.

“A motte. It means a little grove of trees in a prairie.”

“Well, that’s a new one to me,” said Roy.

“You’ll run into lots more things that seem strange,” said the mate.
“You know you’re a long way from home. If you were in Europe, you’d be
in a foreign land at this distance from your home.”

“Well, I see something already that’s new. What ails the trees in that
‘motte’? They look as if somebody had hung veils or something on them.”

The first officer laughed. “You aren’t so far out of the way, Roy,” he
said, “only what you see is moss, and it was hung there by nature.”

“Moss!” exclaimed Roy. “Why, I never saw any moss like that. The stuff
must be a yard long.”

“Yes; and it’s moss. They call it Spanish moss, and sometimes it is
known as pirate’s beard. It often grows three feet long. In this part
of the world the trees are festooned with it. After a while we’ll take
a walk through a wood where it grows thick, and you’ll agree with me
that it is very beautiful.”

The train passed a number of ranch-houses, or rather a number were
visible at a distance. They were little, low structures, painted a
dazzling white. There was little or no shade about them, and it seemed
to Roy as though they must be unendurably hot, out there on the open
prairie with the blazing Texas sun beating down on them. Several of
these ranch-houses had curious, low trees near them that spread out
horizontally like enormous umbrellas. They caught Roy’s eye at once.

“What are those funny trees?” he demanded.

“Those are China-trees, Roy. They have quantities of colored berries
on them in the winter season, the juice of which is intoxicating.
Young robins often eat the berries and get drunk. Then they can be
knocked over with a stick, and, in consequence, many poor young robins
go into potpies down here. It is said that a robin that has once been
intoxicated by the berries will never touch them a second time, but I
don’t know how true it is.”

The railroad crossed several small streams. Along the course of each
were luxuriant growths of trees. Some of these were quite unfamiliar
to Roy. One species in particular caught his attention because of its
dark, glossy foliage.

“That is the live-oak,” explained Mr. Young. “It is really an
evergreen, although it has leaves like our deciduous trees.”

In about two hours the train drew near the oil fields. Mr. Young did
not have to tell Roy where they were, for Roy’s nose told him very
plainly. The air was redolent with crude oil.

“Phew!” cried Roy. “That’s pretty strong. I don’t believe I would like
to live in such a smell.”

“You’d soon get used to it,” replied the mate. “A person can get used
to anything, apparently, though I’ve sometimes wondered how anybody
could ever become accustomed to the smell of the factories where they
turn fish into oil and fertilizer. I was in one once near the Delaware
Breakwater.”

“If it smelled any worse than this,” laughed Roy, “I’m glad it’s near
the Delaware Breakwater. That’s quite close enough for me.”

When they got out of the train they walked toward the oil field. Roy
had seen pictures of the Pennsylvania oil fields, which were hardly
a hundred miles from his home. He expected to see a derrick here and
a derrick there, and so he was utterly amazed at what he now beheld.
Oil-derricks rose before him in dense masses. From a distance it seemed
to Roy that they were as close together as trees in a forest. There
were hundreds and hundreds of them. Instead of being spread out all
over the region they were crowded together. Mr. Young explained that
this was because the oil pocket was in that particular neighborhood. As
they drew nearer, they could see the pumps at work, the walking-beams
going rhythmically up and down.

But what amazed Roy perhaps even more than the mass of derricks
were the colonies of tanks to hold the oil. In every direction were
clusters of tanks. These were great, circular structures of steel,
each holding 30,000 gallons or more. Roy noticed that each group of
tanks was laid out with mathematical precision, like checkers standing
at even distances from one another on a checker-board. The idea was
emphasized by the fact that each tank had a dike or low wall of earth
thrown up about it in the form of a great square, like the lines in the
checker-board. Roy asked why the dikes were there.

“Sometimes an oil-tank catches fire,” said Mr. Young, “and the burning
oil gets out. If there is a dike about a tank the burning oil can’t
reach the tanks next to it and set them on fire.”

“It’s a good idea,” commented Roy.

“If ever you see a tank afire, you’ll think so,” said Mr. Young.
“Sometimes a tank explodes and showers burning oil all about. A tank
will burn for days, and the entire field is endangered as long as the
blaze lasts. Everything about an oil field is soaked with oil, you will
notice, and if a fire spreads, it may sweep over the entire field. That
has happened more than once. Whenever a tank gets afire, they begin at
once to pump the oil out of the tanks around it.”

Presently Roy caught sight of a great string of tank-cars. “Jiminy
crickets!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know there were so many oil cars in
the country. Why, there must be hundreds of them.”

“I suppose there are,” answered Mr. Young. “Do you see those racks
running along the tracks just beside the cars? Those are huge oil
pipes. They connect with oil-tanks somewhere. When a train is to be
filled, a connecting pipe is run out to each tank-car and the pumps are
started. They can load a hundred cars as easily as one.”

Presently a man on a buckboard dashed toward them, crying, “Here’s your
hot tamales. Just fresh out of the kettle.”

“Have you eaten a hot tamale, Roy?” asked Mr. Young.

“No,” said Roy. “I didn’t know they were things you ate. I thought that
was just a slang term.”

Mr. Young laughed and said, “We’ll try some. Then you’ll know what that
bit of slang means.”

He motioned to the vender, who raced over to them and pulled his horses
up short. They were bronchos and interested Roy. They were small but
apparently tough and wiry. Mr. Young bought two tamales and handed one
to Roy. The latter looked at it quizzically. He didn’t know whether
he was the victim of a joke or not; for what Mr. Young had given him
was a piece of a corn-husk. It was piping hot, and was wrapped around
something soft.

“Open it,” said Mr. Young.

Roy carefully unrolled the husk. Within was the steaming tamale. It was
a little cake of meal and minced meat, cooked in the husk. Roy took a
bite. There were tears in his eyes before he got it down.

“Great Cæsar!” he cried, “what’s in that?”

“Corn-meal, minced meat, cayenne pepper, and perhaps some other
things,” said Mr. Young.

“Principally pepper, I think,” said Roy, sucking in fresh air to cool
his burning mouth. Then, after a moment, he laughed. “I certainly do
know what that slang term means,” he said. “Whoever invented that dish,
anyway?”

“The Mexicans,” said Mr. Young. “There are a lot more Mexican dishes
you may want to try while you’re down here--enchiladas and chili con
carne, for instance.”

“Not for mine,” said Roy ruefully. “At least not if they are anything
like hot tamales.”

“They are,” laughed the first officer, “only more so. That’s one thing
I never could understand--why people in a country as hot as Mexico
should want to eat food as hot and greasy as the Mexicans like it, for
they use about as much lard as they do pepper.”

“I’m glad I’m not a Mexican,” laughed Roy.

They walked through the oil field to the headquarters of a drilling
company. Mr. Young transacted the business on which he had come. Roy,
meantime, wandered about, watching operations. He was particularly
interested in the digging of a great, round hollow near by. Hundreds of
men were at work in it, and scores of mules. With scrapers the men were
hollowing out a great circle and dragging the scooped-out earth up in a
mound that ran around it.

“What are they doing?” asked Roy when Mr. Young rejoined him.

“Building an earthen tank for oil,” replied the mate. “They will lay
planks to form the circular wall and back that up with the earth in the
mound. The roof will be of boards. The tank will hold several hundred
gallons and will be pretty much under ground. It’s a cheap way to build
a reservoir and it makes a pretty safe receptacle. Now we’ll go look at
that bit of woods I mentioned.”

They left the oil field and walked toward a woodland that was visible
at some distance. It proved to be extensive and lay along a little
stream of water. Roy was instantly attracted by the wonderful growths
of pirate’s beard. It was everywhere. In great festoons it hung from
the trees, giving the woods a misty, hazy look. Roy got hold of some
and examined it. The moss was like coarse, gray-green fibres more or
less loosely grown together. It reminded him of an old man’s beard and
he thought it was well named.

He admired the live-oaks with their picturesque growth and beautiful
leaves, so green and glossy. Here and there great bunches of mistletoe
with its yellow-green stems and leaves caught his eye. But what pleased
Roy most were the beautiful holly-trees. There were none in his part of
the country, but he had seen holly branches in the stores at Christmas
time and he instantly knew what they were. There were no red berries
on the trees at this season, but they were beautiful even without
the berries, with their smooth, gray trunks that reminded Roy of the
beeches in his own neighborhood, and the glossy, dark green leaves,
with their prickly edges. There were many other strange and interesting
growths, and Roy went back to the train feeling that he had been richly
repaid for his journey.

The return trip was made without incident and in due time Roy and his
friend found themselves back on the _Lycoming_. Captain Lansford nodded
to them as they came aboard and inquired pleasantly if Roy had enjoyed
the trip. Roy answered briefly, then went to the wireless house. His
heart was beating high. The captain had never said one word to him
concerning the fog and the part Roy had played in helping to prevent a
collision, but ever since that event he had seemed different to Roy.
His greeting now made Roy feel that perhaps at last he was making some
headway in his struggle to win the captain’s good-will. At any rate, he
felt sure that the captain no longer disliked him.




CHAPTER XV SOS


But Roy was soon to find that the captain’s favor, like success, could
be gained by no royal road. It was true that the captain’s feeling
toward Roy was perhaps altered somewhat, but not nearly so much as Roy
either hoped or at first believed. The captain treated him less coldly
than before, but there was nothing like cordiality in his manner toward
Roy. Distinctly the captain’s attitude was like that of the man from
Missouri. He still wanted to be shown.

It was a long time before Roy grasped the idea that the captain was
still skeptical concerning the desirability of wireless. But as time
and distance from the _Merrimack_ incident gave him a saner view of
the affair, he came to understand the captain’s point of view. That
was that though Roy had possibly been helpful in averting a collision,
it did not by any means follow that if Roy had not been aboard a
collision would have occurred. The men on the bridge plainly heard the
_Merrimack’s_ whistle. They knew she was near and coming closer. They
were straining every nerve and sense to prevent an accident. All that
Roy had told them that they did not already know was the fact that the
_Merrimack_ was within two thousand feet. And they might have guessed
even that. When Roy, after much deliberation, had reasoned this out
for himself, he saw his own part in a new light. It seemed to him now
very commonplace and inconsequential. Perhaps he now erred as much
in this new opinion as previously he had erred in overestimating his
accomplishment.

But at any rate his new point of view helped him. More and more, as he
saw new crises arising, now over delays in loading, now over breaks
in machinery or equipment, now through storms or other superhuman
causes, and saw the captain rise superior to one after another of
these obstacles, he got his true bearings. He understood what a really
insignificant place he occupied. For thirty years the captain had
wrestled, and wrestled triumphantly, with every form of obstacle known
to the mariner, while he, Roy, had sailed the seas hardly more than
thirty days and knew nothing of the thousand difficulties of navigation.

It was fortunate indeed for Roy that he could thus come to understand
his true situation. It prevented him, on the one hand, from becoming
conceited, and so ruining his chances of ever getting ahead; and,
on the other hand, it kept him from growing sullen and becoming
indifferent in his work. And while it could hardly have been called
encouraging, it was far from being discouraging. For Roy’s entire
experience of life made him believe firmly that if he worked hard
enough and used his brains along with his hands, nothing could keep
him from succeeding. The net result of all his cogitations, therefore,
was to make him grit his teeth the tighter and vow in his heart that
nothing should prevent him from winning out. He would do perfectly
every task that could possibly be required of him.

Week after week went by with no noticeable alteration in the captain’s
attitude toward Roy. The captain spoke to him politely but without
cordiality. He never came to the wireless house and he never invited
Roy to the bridge, or the wheel-house, or his own cabin. He sent no
messages other than those required by his work. He never asked for
weather-reports or storm warnings, or the nightly news-letter, though
Roy unfailingly laid these before the captain. But whether the latter
welcomed them or took any interest in them Roy could not discover.

All the while Roy continued to pick up useful information. He got
acquainted with every member of the crew. He learned exactly how a ship
is coaled and how the coal is stored in the bunkers. Often he visited
the fire-room and the water-tenders explained to him exactly how fires
should be handled. He watched the crew load and unload the ship and
soon found that if the cargo was to be stowed in such a manner that it
would not shift in a storm and endanger the ship, it must be packed
with fine skill. Harder than ever he tried to make himself agreeable to
the passengers, for he bore ever in mind the fact that it was his duty
to get as much business for the company as he could.

Meantime, Roy matured rapidly. All his pleasing frankness and his jolly
good nature he retained. More and more he grew dependable. Before
many weeks passed everybody aboard the _Lycoming_, from the captain
down, understood that if Roy said he would do a thing or if he were
ordered to do a thing, that thing would be done, and done promptly
and well. Roy hardly realized what a reputation he had gained. And
even if he had, it is hardly likely that he would have appreciated
the full importance of such a reputation. Though he knew in his heart
that any real success must be based on just such a reputation for
trustworthiness, he was constantly on the lookout for an opportunity
to prove his merit in ways more striking. The opportunity came to Roy
far sooner than he ever believed it would and in a way it would have
terrified him to contemplate, could he have foreseen all that lay
before him.

Early September found Roy on his last voyage aboard the _Lycoming_.
At least he believed it to be his last. The three months’ period
during which a possible successor was being prepared for his position
was almost at an end. The captain had given no indication that he
thought more highly of Roy or that he desired him to continue at his
post. Neither had he ever mentioned, after their first interview, the
probability of a successor for Roy. But Roy understood that he would
not. The new man would simply come aboard and Roy would be told to
report to the Marconi office. What would happen to him then he did not
know. He hated to think of the day when this would happen, for it might
mean the end of his career as a Marconi operator. More than that, it
would certainly mean an end to his relations with the purser and the
first mate and all the other friends who had been so good to him on the
_Lycoming_, and of whom he had become so fond. So it was with a rather
heavy heart that he put to sea early in September on what he believed
would be his very last trip aboard the _Lycoming_. It was hard to keep
a stiff upper lip and to continue smiling. But Roy took a grip on
himself and made the effort.

Apparently the journey was to be as uneventful as the last few trips
had been. Two days passed without incident. Then the barometer began to
fall. Roy did not know that, but he had grown sufficiently weather-wise
to know that a storm was brewing. At first he thought little of it. The
captain’s face, as usual, was inscrutable, but Mr. Young looked sober.
When Roy noticed that he began to feel concerned. Then he remembered
that it was the ninth of September--the very period of the year when
the worst storms visit the Gulf.

The _Lycoming_ was already far down the Florida coast. The Bahama
Islands were just ahead. The passage between Palm Beach and the Great
Bahama Island was hardly sixty miles wide--a mere nothing in a storm,
should anything go wrong. Only a few hours distant were the Florida
Straits, with their treacherous currents and their far-flung string
of keys, like a chain to catch the unwary mariner, with Key West like
a pendant at the end of the chain, and the Dry Tortugas still farther
west. Perilous indeed would be the position of any ship overtaken
thereabout by a hurricane.

Roy inspected his apparatus, made sure his telephone was in working
order, and got ready for an emergency. Late in the day Roy went on
the bridge to talk to Mr. Young, who was in command. Already there
were signs of the coming storm. The wind was soughing ominously and
rising steadily. The sea was beginning to heave. The _Lycoming_ rolled
unsteadily. Roy thanked his lucky stars that he had gotten his sea-legs
and could stand rough weather without being seasick. He might be needed
and he wanted to be fit if he were.

“What do you think of it?” asked Roy.

“Looks bad to me,” said the first officer. “The barometer is falling
fast. Something is sure to come out of it. And now’s just the time
of year when the worst storms hit the Gulf. If we can get past the
Dry Tortugas before it strikes us, we’ll be all right. We’ll have the
entire Gulf before us then.”

“What does the captain think of it?” inquired Roy.

“He never says much about what he thinks,” replied the big mate, “but
he’s had his eye on the barometer all the forenoon, and he’s asleep
now, so it’s evident what he thinks.”

“You mean he thinks there’s nothing to worry about?”

“I mean just the contrary. If we do have a bad storm, the captain will
be out here on the bridge until it’s over or until he can’t stand any
longer, and he’s resting up.”

Roy returned to the wireless house, feeling vaguely uneasy.

Palm Beach was passed early in the afternoon. Roy saw that even at
her best speed the _Lycoming_ could hardly reach the Straits before
midnight, and it would be close to ten hours more before they were
safely past the Dry Tortugas. Twenty hours must elapse before they were
through the danger zone and had the wide Gulf before them. He hoped
that the storm would hold off that length of time.

Sunset saw little change in the weather. Wind and wave were far from
boisterous. The thing that troubled the first officer was the way
in which the barometer still fell steadily. Late in the day he gave
an order to make everything fast. Roy, chancing to come out of the
wireless house, saw sailors below battening down hatches, lashing every
movable object fast, and otherwise making things tight. He had never
seen that done before. At supper Roy noticed that the waiters were
serious and preoccupied. Somehow a distinct air of apprehension seemed
to be abroad. And yet there was nothing to be alarmed at excepting the
steady fall of the barometer.

Roy went directly from the supper table to his instrument and began
searching the seas for ships. The atmosphere played all sorts of tricks
with his wireless. One minute he could hear nothing and the next he
would catch part of a message from New York. He got into touch with
the Mallory liner _Comal_. She was anchored at Key West. He heard the
steamer _Valbanera_ and talked with her. She was off Havana. A terrible
storm was raging there and the ship’s master was afraid to try to enter
the harbor. So he had put to sea again. Once Roy heard a message sent
by the _Empress_ to some other ship. The _Empress_ had left Havana for
Galveston, a new schedule having gone into effect.

“The captain will see his brother this voyage,” thought Roy. “It will
be a happy trip for him.”

He tried to reach the _Empress_, but call as he would, he could get no
response. He talked with a number of shore stations, but there seemed
to be nothing out of the ordinary to report. The sea was not very rough
and the chances of getting nicely through the Straits seemed good. Yet
Roy could not help feeling apprehensive and depressed. He knew the
Gulf was in a tumult off Havana. Could he have seen the barometer and
the sober face of Captain Lansford, who had now taken command, he would
have known there was good cause to feel apprehensive.

Just when the storm struck the _Lycoming_, Roy never knew. Hour after
hour he stuck to the wireless house, now listening in, now calling,
calling for ships he knew ought to be within call, but which he could
not reach. So intent was Roy upon his work that he did not hear the
rising wind or notice the increasing violence of the waves, until
suddenly the _Lycoming_ staggered and heeled far over. The sudden lurch
almost threw Roy out of his chair.

He pulled off his receivers and was instantly aware that the wind
was shrieking about the wireless house with terrific force. The
windows rattled, the door creaked under its pressure, and the entire
superstructure of the ship seemed to shiver. He could hear the groaning
of masts and derricks, of life-boats and rafts lashed to the deck, of a
hundred objects here and there. He thanked providence the mate had had
things made fast. The roll of the rain on the roof was like thunder.
When Roy rose to his feet he found he could not stand without holding
to something. At once he knew he had never been in such a storm as
this. But it was not until he opened the door of the wireless house
that he understood how violent the storm really was. The instant he
turned the latch the door flew inward, striking him with great force.
The wind rushed in with a deafening shriek and almost flung him on
the floor. The rain beat in in torrents. The roar of the elements
was beyond description. It was a deafening welter of sound. Like
demons howling in agony the winds roared and shrieked. The rain beat
a terrific monotone on deck and roof. The crests of the waves broke
before the wind with a hissing roar like the thunder of a thousand
Niagaras. The rigging rattled. Woodwork everywhere creaked and groaned.
Stays and guy lines beat a very devil’s tattoo under the awful blasts.
All about him, papers, despatches, records, clothes, were whirling like
dust before a swirling wind. With all his might Roy strove to shut the
door. He was not able to do it. Then an awful lurch of the ship flung
the door violently shut and threw Roy against the opposite wall. His
chair flew across the room with a crash. The remainder of the furniture
was fastened to the floor.

Roy picked himself up, righted his chair, and attempted to collect
the articles scattered by the wind. Now he realized how the sea had
risen. Down, down, down, the ship seemed to go. It lifted as suddenly,
sending Roy staggering against the wall. Now it lurched this way, now
that. Never had he supposed a great ship could be pitched about as the
_Lycoming_ now was. Far to one side it tilted. As suddenly it shot far
to the other side. Then it pitched forward. Now it seemed as though it
was trying to stand on its stern. Suddenly it dipped sidewise, falling,
falling, until Roy cried out in very fear. He was sure the ship was
turning over. Nor was his the only heart that stood still with terror.
White-faced the man in the pilot-house clung to his wheel.

“Great God!” he muttered. “A sixty-degree roll,” and waited breathless,
like Roy, for the ship to right itself.

Down in the stewards’ quarters the negroes were gathered together with
blanched faces, some praying, some moaning. Amid all this welter of
wind and wave, Captain Lansford stood on the bridge, holding to the
rail like grim death, the rain falling on his oilskins in torrents, the
blasts tearing at his garments, as he peered through the blinding spray
and listened to the tumult of the tempest, unmoved, immovable, a man of
iron with a heart of steel, grappling with a tempest.

It was the thought of the captain that brought courage back to Roy. As
the _Lycoming_ hung for what seemed an age at that terrifying angle,
Roy lost his grip on himself. For perhaps the first time in his life,
he felt physical terror. An awful fear gripped his soul. His heart
actually stopped beating. The blood rushed from his cheeks till they
were like chalk. He seemed paralyzed. He could not even cry out. He
was completely unmanned. Death was so near at hand and the thought
of it came so suddenly that it overpowered him. Then Roy thought of
the captain. He knew he was out on the bridge. He knew he was facing
the awful wind, the driving rain, the blinding spray, the danger of
being washed overboard, and that there he would stand, hour after hour
defying death and the elements to bring the _Lycoming_ safe to port.

“Thank God for Captain Lansford!” cried Roy. “He’ll win through. He’ll
bring us safe to port. He’s never failed yet. He won’t fail now. Thank
God, Captain Lansford is in command.”

The color flew back into Roy’s cheeks. His heart began to pound
bravely. His pulses beat with courage.

“We’ve got to help him, every one of us!” he cried aloud. “What can I
do? What can I do?”

A still, small voice answered, “Your duty.”

“My duty,” said Roy aloud, “is right at that instrument. That’s my post
as long as this storm lasts.”

He shoved his chair across the room, sat down at his desk, and clamped
the receivers to his ears. He was just in time to catch a message.
The United States Weather Bureau at New Orleans, seven hundred miles
away, was sending out a storm warning to Louisiana coast towns and
other places along the Gulf which the hurricane had not yet reached.
“Tropical disturbance in southeastern Gulf moving northwest will cause
increasing northeast winds.”

According to rule, Roy jotted down the time the message was received.
It was just ten o’clock.

“I wonder if I should give this to the captain,” said Roy, with a grin.
“He might like to know there’s going to be a storm.”

Then his face became sober enough and he settled to work. For long
periods he listened for voices in the storm. Again and again he flashed
out messages to ships that he thought should be near, but he could
reach nobody. After a time he got an answer from the _Comal_, with
which he had talked before. She was still fast to her moorings in Key
West, but in imminent danger of being torn away. Even as Roy talked to
her it happened.

“We’re loose,” flashed her operator to Roy, “and blowing ashore. I’ve
got to stand by to send messages for the skipper. Good-bye. Good luck
to you.”

There were tears in Roy’s eyes as he jotted down the message. “Wishing
us good luck while he’s going perhaps to his death,” muttered Roy.
“He’s a man--as every wireless operator ought to be.” And while he
listened for other signals, he sent up a silent prayer that when the
pinch came he would be equally brave.

Meantime the ship staggered on. With the stars blotted out, with the
seas mounting higher and higher, with the wind blowing at hurricane
force, it was impossible to tell what speed the ship was making,
whether she was being blown far from her course, or where she was. Yet
the captain must decide all these things and decide them right, if the
_Lycoming_ was to come through the storm in safety. The most hazardous
part of her journey still lay ahead of her. It would be doubly
hazardous now because the wind would be abeam when she turned west to
pass through the Straits.

In the early hours of the morning the motion of the ship seemed to
alter. For Roy, on the very top of the vessel, every movement was
intensified. At once he was conscious of this altered motion. Before,
her movements had been mostly violent forward plunges. Now she rolled
fearfully from side to side. First she rolled far over to port. Then
she dipped at a terrifying angle to starboard. Roy could not understand
it. After a time it came to him that the ship was wallowing in the
trough of the waves. Had something gone wrong? Had the steering-gear
broken? Was the ship out of control and drifting toward land, even as
the _Comal_ had done? These and a hundred other questions Roy asked
himself as he sat breathless at his operating table. Should he call
the bridge to see if the captain wanted the SOS sounded? Small chance
they would have of getting help in such a storm, Roy told himself, when
it was all any ship could do to keep herself afloat, let alone help
another. All the while Roy was conscious of the regular vibration of
the ship’s engines. Presently it occurred to him that if the ship were
unmanageable the engines would probably be stopped. Then he knew what
was wrong. The ship had turned west. They were in the Straits. The
waves were catching the _Lycoming_ abeam. The pinch had come. Could the
_Lycoming_ survive it?

Hardly had Roy asked himself the question before there was an awful
roar. With a noise like a thousand thunders a mighty sea struck the
_Lycoming_ broadside and poured over her decks. It was the first sea
that had come aboard. By intuition Roy knew what had happened. His
thoughts reverted to the day when he had expressed surprise, almost
incredulity, at the purser’s statement that waves sometimes swept the
deck. Thirty feet, the purser had said the waves sometimes rose. He
wondered how high this one was. He knew it was a monster. He wondered
what the sea looked like with waves like that. He wished it were day
so he could see. Then he was glad it was not day. He was afraid he
would be afraid. Whatever happened, he did not want to be a coward. The
thought of the captain on the bridge heartened him. It was wonderful
how the bare thought of that fearless man restored Roy’s courage.

On and on plunged the _Lycoming_, ploughing through cross-seas,
wallowing between mighty waves, fighting her way through a welter of
water such as Roy had never dreamed of. Hour by hour, the force of
the wind increased. The seas mounted higher. The ship labored more
heavily. Time and again great waves swept over her. Her bulwarks were
smashed. Railings and woodwork were torn away. Iron stanchions were
bent like wire. The bridge was battered. The waters clawed at her hull
and the winds tore at her superstructure. But unflinching, unyielding,
undaunted, gripping the rail with grasp of iron, the captain stood on
the bridge, master of wave and wind.

Never had Roy welcomed daylight as he welcomed the dawn next morning.
All night long he had sat at his instrument, waiting, waiting, waiting
for the moment when he might be needed. A hundred times he had pictured
the sea to himself; but his wildest picture was tame in comparison with
the actual scene as revealed by the light of dawn. The confusion of
the waters was beyond conception. Mountain high the seas were piling
up. Under the awful blasts of wind they rushed forward like frenzied
demons, frothing, seething, hissing, roaring, climbing up and up until
the hurricane tore their tops away, flinging the spray like tropic rain
in blinding sheets. Again and again Roy watched with bated breath as a
monster wave bore down on the ship, rising higher and higher, until it
plunged forward on the _Lycoming_ with a crash, shaking the sturdy ship
from stem to stern. The roar of the elements was deafening. Beyond all
power of imagination, the tempest was awful.

Hour by hour the stanch vessel fought her way through the maelstrom.
The wind tended ever to blow her toward the keys and shoals that
menaced on the north, but the man on the bridge kept pointing her into
the wind. No land was visible. Neither was the sun. It was impossible
to take a reckoning and determine the ship’s position. Yet with that
instinct born of years of experience, the captain allowed for the
drift, gauged the ship’s speed, and kept her on her course. Noon should
normally have seen her far past the Dry Tortugas. It was hours later
when the _Lycoming_ actually reached them. For a few minutes the rain
ceased and the air cleared. Again and again the man on the bridge
swept the horizon with his glasses. Finally he glimpsed land. That one
glance told him all he wanted to know. He had seen a landmark on the
Dry Tortugas. He knew he was only slightly off his course. At once he
rectified his position. The wide Gulf was now before him and, barring
accident, he knew he should come through safely. But he was traveling
with the hurricane. He did not run through it, but advanced with it. So
the storm continued hour after hour without abatement.

Late in the day, Roy sought food. If he had thought the storm terrible,
within the shelter of the wireless house, he had no words to describe
it now as he stood in the open, exposed to the elements. Clutching
the rail with all his strength, bending low before the gale, Roy
advanced foot by foot. He was almost afraid to go down the ladder lest
he be pitched headlong into the hissing seas. A step at a time he
descended, hugging the ladder tenaciously. Then, crouching close to the
superstructure of the ship, he fought his way against an awful wind
until he reached a door. In another second he was inside, trembling all
over from the violence of his efforts and his close contact with the
storm. When he remembered that for twenty hours the captain had stood
on the bridge, facing that awful wind and those crashing seas, he was
speechless with admiration. It was more than admiration. It was almost
worship. A burning desire came into his heart to do something in return
for the captain.

Roy got some food and the steward provided him with a little bag of
provisions so that he need not leave the wireless house again until the
storm was over. Then Roy crept back up the ladder and flung himself on
his bed.

He slept for hours. During that time the ship staggered on. All day and
all night the hurricane raged, and all the next day and the next night.
For forty-eight hours Captain Lansford never left the bridge. Then,
utterly exhausted, he staggered to his cabin and dropped asleep, while
Mr. Young took command. For twenty-four hours the captain lay like one
dead. Then he returned to the bridge and again took command. During
all that time the storm continued without abatement. The seas climbed
higher every hour under the terrific lashing of the tempest.

Roy spent long hours at his post. Indeed, he hardly laid aside his
receivers except when he snatched a little sleep. He got into touch
with the _Comal_ again and learned that she had been beached by the
wind, but that no one was hurt. The British oil tanker _Tonawanda_
had been scuttled to save the _Comal_. The steamer _Grampus_ and the
schooner _E. V. Drew_ had gone down in the harbor, while Key West
itself was prostrated. Three hundred and twenty houses, together with
stores, churches, and other buildings had been demolished. The wind
had reached a velocity of 110 miles an hour. From other stations Roy
learned of other damage. The town of Gould was virtually razed. The
wireless station at Fort Taylor was wrecked. Towns all along the
eastern Gulf shore were badly damaged by the awful wind. When Roy
learned that the _Valbanera_ had gone down with all on board, his
face was very sober indeed. But for Captain Lansford, thought Roy, the
_Lycoming_, too, might now be somewhere on the bottom of the Gulf.

Another day passed. The hurricane blew with undiminished force. With
every hour of wind the seas grew higher. But the _Lycoming_ weathered
both wind and wave. She was drawing near her destination. Her harbor
was not many hours distant. But could she make it? Would she dare try
to run between those walls of stone in such a sea? Would she not have
to put back into the open Gulf, like the _Valbanera_, and try to ride
out the storm? These and a hundred other questions Roy asked himself
when he realized that the _Lycoming_ was drawing near to Galveston.
Then he thought of the sea-wall and felt thankful it was there. If the
_Lycoming_ had withstood the tempest, he felt sure the sea-wall had,
too. He shuddered to think what would have happened had there been no
sea-wall.

All the time Roy was working with his instruments, trying to pick up
news, listening for voices in the air. Again and again he had tried to
get into touch with Galveston, but in vain. It was not until the middle
of the afternoon that he finally reached the Marconi man there. It was
late Saturday afternoon. The Galveston operator said the storm was then
at its worst. The sea was beating furiously at the sea-wall. The wind
was blowing nearly seventy miles an hour. The barometer was way below
thirty. But the city was safe. He did not believe it would be wise to
attempt to enter the harbor with such a sea running.

“Another night of it,” groaned Roy to himself, as the Galveston man
flashed good-bye. “I hope I never see another storm like this. I’ll
have to give this news to the captain.”

Roy laid aside his receivers and picked up his telephone. His signal
was answered by the captain.

“Galveston man says storm at its height there now,” telephoned Roy.
“Does not think it safe to try to enter harbor. Seventy-mile wind
blowing.”

There was no reply. The captain had turned away from the telephone in
anger. He was the judge of whether to enter the harbor or not, and not
some landlubber sitting where he couldn’t even see the water.

Roy adjusted his receivers again. Hardly were they in place before a
sound crackled in his ears, “SOS--SOS--SOS.”

It galvanized Roy into action. The blood surged through his heart.
With eager, trembling fingers he flung back a reply.

“Who are you? I have your signal of distress.”

For what seemed an age he waited for an answer. Outside, the wind was
howling like a pack of demons. The wireless house shook and trembled
under its awful blasts. The ship plunged from side to side. Roy clung
to his table as he sat, tense and rigid, waiting for a reply.

“Who are you?” he flashed again. “I have your signal of distress.”

Again he waited. Would the wireless play him false at such a critical
minute? Were the atmospherics to trick him again?

Then it came. “Steamer _Empress_, Rudder broken. Drifting helpless.”

“Where are you?” flashed back Roy. “What is your latitude and
longitude?”

Crash! Bang! A terrible sea swept over the _Lycoming_. She heeled far
over. Something had given way. Something was wrong with his wireless.
Trembling, Roy ran to his door and peered out. His aerial was gone. It
might take hours perhaps to rig a new one, even if he could get it up
in the gale. What should he do? He _must_ get the _Empress’_ reply. Roy
leaped to the deck. The broken lead-in wire was whipping in the wind.
Quick as thought, he snatched it up and ran back into the wireless
house with it. He scraped the insulation from the broken end and dived
under his couch. In a second he had attached the end of the wire to the
couch spring. In another he was back at his table, receivers clamped to
his head. Tense, breathless, rigid, he listened. Would it work? Could
he hear?

Then it came. “Latitude 28. Longitude 96.”

That was all he needed. Throwing his receivers aside, Roy picked up
his telephone. Again he signaled the bridge. There was no response.
He signaled sharply. No answer came. Again and again Roy tried to get
the captain. The telephone was silent. Either it had been broken or
the captain had been washed away by the awful sea that had struck the
ship. In either case there was nothing to do but take the message to
the bridge himself. Roy leaped to his feet and ran out of the wireless
house, utterly forgetful of wind and wave. Slipping, scrambling,
clutching rails and stanchions, Roy fought his way forward. There was
but one thought in his mind--to get the news to the captain. The latter
was still at his post, though the bridge rail was partly gone and the
wheel-house was stove in. The telephone apparatus was smashed beyond
recognition. Putting his mouth to the captain’s ear, Roy shouted,
“Steamer _Empress_ drifting with broken rudder. Latitude 28; longitude
96.”

The captain looked at him incredulously.

“She left Havana before her usual time,” shouted Roy. “New schedule.”

For a single instant Captain Lansford bent his piercing eyes on Roy.
“Stand by to send a message,” he roared. Then he sprang for the chart
house.




CHAPTER XVI LATITUDE 28--LONGITUDE 96


Roy rushed after him. “My aerial has carried away, sir,” he shouted. “I
cannot send a message until it is repaired.”

“Fix it,” bellowed the captain, turning to his charts.

Roy fought his way back to the wireless house, pausing on the way to
appraise the damage. The aerial was entirely gone, spreaders and all.
Fortunately the halyards that held them aloft were intact. Roy hurried
on to the wireless house. His closet was full of repair material. He
got out two spreaders, a coil of wire, some insulators, and other
needed materials. With remarkable celerity he attached his wires to the
spreader, united them to a new lead-in wire and spliced them to what
was left of the old wire. It was almost dark by the time he finished
his repairs. When all was ready, he struggled out with his new aerial,
and bent it to the halyards. In a few moments it was swinging aloft.
Roy watched it for a minute as the tempest tore at it, to see if it
would hold. Nothing gave way.

The captain, meantime, had snatched up a chart. “Latitude 28, longitude
96,” he repeated, as he ran his finger over the chart. His ruddy face
whitened as he found the spot. “Only thirty-five miles off a lee
shore,” he muttered, “and one hundred and thirty miles from here. Can I
get to him in time?”

He turned to the man at the wheel and laid a new course for him. Then
he sprang to a speaking-tube and ordered the chief engineer to crowd
on every ounce of steam he could make. As the steersman swung the
_Lycoming_ to her new course she heeled far over. Then she righted and
rode more steadily than before. The tempest had changed from northwest
to west and the _Lycoming_ was racing along almost with it. Though
not directly astern, waves and wind were both driving the _Lycoming_
forward. Soon she was tearing through the water at a rate she had never
known before. Her very speed steadied her.

Roy, meantime, had rushed into the wireless house to test his
apparatus. It appeared to work perfectly. Satisfied, he battled his way
to the bridge again and reported to the captain.

“The damage is repaired, sir.”

The captain showed him the positions on the chart. “Tell Charley we’re
coming,” he roared. “Find out just where he is, how he got there, and
what he’s doing.”

Roy left the bridge and faced toward the wireless house. Now he was
heading almost straight into the wind. It seemed to him the tempest
was worse than ever. He could not advance a step. Desperately he clung
to a stanchion. He dared not try to walk across the few feet of deck
to the hand-rail on the superstructure lest he be picked up bodily and
flung into the sea. He dropped to his knees, and fairly hugging the
deck, crept fearfully over to the rail. There he was partly sheltered
from the direct blasts. Crouching low and pulling himself along with
arms and feet, he fought his way to the wireless house. It did not seem
possible that a wind _could_ be so terrible.

Roy adjusted his receivers, threw over his switch, and sent the
_Empress’_ call signal flashing forth. “KKK--KKK--KKK de WNA.”

Then he waited anxiously. Would he get a reply, or would the
atmospherics trick him again? At one hundred and thirty miles’ distance
he ought to communicate with the _Empress_ easily. He was not long in
suspense. Promptly a wireless signal buzzed in his ears.

“WNA de KKK. Have been calling you steadily.”

“KKK de WNA,” flashed back Roy. “My aerial carried away. Got your
position all right. Tell your captain the _Lycoming_ is rushing to help
you. We are a few hours east of Galveston and one hundred and thirty
miles from the position you signaled. We must be making twenty knots an
hour. Should reach you in five to six hours. Keep us informed of your
position. Are you all right? How did you get there? What are you doing?”

“WNA de KKK,” came back the reply. “_Empress_ reached Galveston early
this morning. Sea too rough to enter port. Headed into Gulf to ride out
storm. Broke rudder six hours ago. Drifted four hours, then put down
anchors, but dragging fast. Captain couldn’t get observation. Position
given obtained by dead-reckoning. Trying to repair damage. Sea too high
to do much. Ship all right so far. No land in sight. Change in wind
helpful. Blowing us toward shore at long angle. Captain reckons six to
eight hours before we ground. Reckons we are dragging straight toward
Corpus Christi.”

“KKK de WNA,” signaled back Roy. “Will report to captain. Will call you
every quarter hour. Good luck.”

Once more Roy made the perilous trip to the bridge. “Come inside,”
shouted the captain, dragging Roy within the wheel-house. Roy delivered
his message and the captain listened without comment.

“Any message, Captain?” asked Roy.

“No. Keep in close touch with them.”

“I have already arranged to call them every quarter hour.”

“Good. Go back to your post.”

“How shall I know if you want me?”

“I’ll send a messenger.”

Roy hurried from the wheel-house and vanished in the dark. Hour
after hour the _Lycoming_ raced toward the _Empress_. The seas were
as mountainous and the winds as fierce as any the _Lycoming_ had
encountered, but the ship was running with them and its passage was
less rough than it had been at any time since the tempest struck her.
Unable to see the waves any longer, Roy almost believed that the storm
was subsiding. Every quarter hour Roy called the _Empress_. At each
call he got back the same reply. The _Empress_ was battered but still
safe. She was dragging her anchors. Every time Roy talked to her, the
signals seemed more distinct. There could be no question that the
_Lycoming_ was getting nearer.

Four hours passed. A terrified darky cabin-boy crept into the wireless
house. “De cap’n say tell de _Empress_ to show her search-light,” he
said.

Roy signaled the _Empress_, “Show your search-light.”

Back came the answer, “Search-light out of commission.”

“Tell the captain the _Empress’_ search-light is broken,” said Roy to
the young darky.

“Does I haf to go back to de cap’n, Mr. Mercer?” cried the colored boy,
shaking with fright.

“No,” said Roy, jumping to his feet. “Stay here,” and he disappeared in
the darkness.

“Tell ’em to burn lights and send up rockets every few minutes,”
ordered the captain, when Roy had delivered his message.

Roy regained the wireless house and signaled the _Empress_.

“We’ve been doing that for hours,” came back the reply. “Supply almost
exhausted.”

Again Roy had to fight his way to the bridge with the message. It might
be important for the captain to know about the lights.

Another hour passed. The _Empress_ was not within sight. For half
an hour longer the captain held to his course. Then he headed the
_Lycoming_ nearer shore. Another half hour passed. The _Empress_ was
still invisible.

Then an able-bodied seaman appeared in the wireless house and said,
“The captain says to see if you can find out anything about the
location of the _Empress_, sir.”

Into Roy’s mind flashed the remembrance of the fog off Hatteras. He had
located the _Merrimack_ in the fog. The captain must believe he could
also find the _Empress_ by wireless. It was a great opportunity.

“Tell him I’ll try,” said Roy.

The seaman started for the bridge. Roy dropped his head in his hands
and began to think. How could he locate the _Empress_? A direction
finder such as they had in the search for the secret wireless would do
the trick at once. But he had no direction finder. Then Roy remembered
how the wireless patrol had improvised a direction finder during
the hunt for the dynamiters at Camp Brady. He had helped make that
instrument. He could make another. Before he began, he decided to call
up the _Empress_ again. Hardly had he adjusted his receivers before a
signal crackled in his ears.

“WNA de KKK. Can see a search-light. Is it yours?”

“Will have the light swung in an arc three times. Watch,” flashed back
Roy.

The seaman had not returned, and again Roy had to go to the bridge.
“Swing the search-light overhead in an arc three times,” shouted Roy.
“The _Empress_ thinks she sees us.” Then Roy added, “Please send a
seaman to carry messages for me.”

The great beam of light that had been boring into the darkness ahead
swung round to starboard, then slowly traveled in an arc directly over
the _Lycoming_ until it came to rest on the seething waters to port.
Then it retraced its path. A third time it circled overhead, lighting
up the heavy canopy of clouds. Meantime Roy had regained the wireless
house. Trembling with eagerness, he clamped his receivers to his ears
and listened.

“WNA de KKK,” presently came a signal. “It’s your light. We saw it
swing overhead three times. Can see its beams now.”

“Get a compass bearing on it and signal me,” flashed Roy.

In a few minutes the answer came. “Almost due east.”

Roy sent the news to the captain. “She’s dragged more than I thought
possible,” muttered the captain as he entered the chart house. Then,
turning to the steersman, he ordered, “Starboard--head her due west.”

Twenty minutes later lights flashed out directly ahead of the
_Lycoming_, then disappeared again. It was the _Empress_ as she rose
and fell with the waves. She was only a few miles distant. A few
minutes later the _Lycoming_ was close to her.

To Roy, watching from the wireless house, it did not seem humanly
possible that the _Lycoming_ could assist the _Empress_. The latter
lay with her nose to the storm, rising and falling with the waves and
rolling violently. Roy could see two great anchor chains leading down
into the water. Most of the time the _Empress_ rode the huge swells
buoyantly. But occasionally the crest of a great wave broke over her
and went rushing aft with an awful roar, smashing woodwork and twisting
iron. As the _Lycoming’s_ search-light played on the _Empress_ Roy
could see that her bulwarks and rails were smashed to pieces. All but
one of her small boats had carried away. Her life-rafts were gone. Part
of the railing about the bridge was smashed. To Roy she seemed all but
battered to pieces. To an experienced sailor like Captain Lansford, she
appeared to be in good shape. The ship herself was intact.

How any earthly power could get lines aboard of her, or how it could
tow her in the teeth of such a gale, even if the lines were got aboard,
was more than Roy could understand. He did not believe it possible.
He did not believe any small boat could exist for one minute in that
raging sea. Yet he knew very well that Captain Lansford intended to
assist the _Empress_. What he would do Roy could not conceive. All he
could do was to watch and learn.

For some time Roy could not see that anything was being done. The
_Lycoming_ reduced her speed, but kept steadily on past the _Empress_.
Then she began to swing around her in a wide arc. Roy believed the
captain meant to approach close to the ship from the leeward side. But
when the _Lycoming_ continued to circle slowly around the _Empress_,
Roy was puzzled.

The _Lycoming_ swung completely round the _Empress_, but not until the
circuit had been completed did Roy get an inkling of what the captain
was doing. The search-light played here and there, now picking out the
path of the _Lycoming_, now illuminating the _Empress_, which tossed
violently at the very centre of the huge circle the _Lycoming_ had just
traced. To his intense surprise Roy saw that the water within this
circle was calming down. It rose and fell as mightily as ever, but no
seas broke. Giant waves mounted higher and higher, gathering volume and
power as they rushed down on the _Empress_, but instead of breaking
with a crash and hurling tons of water at the helpless steamer, they
subsided without foam or fuss. It was as though some invisible hand had
spread a great, elastic blanket over the face of the seething waters.
They billowed and tossed beneath this invisible blanket, but they
billowed and tossed harmlessly. The power of the waves to smash things
was gone. Amazed, incredulous, disbelieving the very thing his eyes
beheld, Roy watched the miracle that was being performed. Finally it
came to him that Captain Lansford was putting oil on the sea.

In the nose of the _Lycoming_ sailors had been at work for hours
preparing to perform the miracle that Roy was watching. Great,
cone-shaped bags had been made of canvas and stuffed with oakum. The
oakum had been saturated with storm oil. The bags had been suspended
over the forward wash-basins so that at the proper time their contents
could drain into the sea. Additional supplies of oil stood at hand in
cans. Long before the _Lycoming_ came abreast of the _Empress_, Captain
Lansford had everything in readiness to spread abroad the oil film
that was now taming the seas before Roy’s astonished vision. At the
proper moment word was passed to start the oil. With coarse sailmakers’
needles the canvas cones were punctured and the oil began to flow.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, it fell into the wash-basins and made its way
down the drain-pipes to the sea, hushing the boisterous breakers even
as Christ stilled the waters with His command, “Peace. Be still.”

Three times the _Lycoming_ circled the _Empress_, each time at a
greater distance, until the waters for a mile about the crippled liner
were coated with oil. Then Captain Lansford brought the _Lycoming_ as
close as he dared to the _Empress_, which lay directly to leeward. A
great life-boat was unlashed and made ready for launching. Up to this
time Roy had remained in the wireless house. Now he made his way to
the deck, where some sailors were gathered beside the life-boat. The
captain stood on the bridge with a megaphone in his hand. He roared out
a call for volunteers to man the boat. There was a rush for the smaller
craft. Without pausing to consider, Roy leaped into the boat. He found
himself seated beside the sailor who had come to the wireless house
with the captain’s message. The boat was manned almost before Roy was
fairly seated. The third officer sat in the stern to steer her.

The captain was scanning the sea critically. “Launch her!” he bellowed
suddenly.

The boat swung outboard and dropped on the smooth crest of a wave.
The tackles were cast loose and all hands gave way with the oars
that their tiny craft might not be smashed against the _Lycoming’s_
side. Before the next wave rose they were at a safe distance from the
_Lycoming_. The lines they were to take to the _Empress_ trailed astern.

From the deck of the _Lycoming_ the oily sea had seemed comparatively
peaceful. Once Roy was on it in a small boat, he found it was terrible.
The little life-boat was tossed about like a cork in a boiling caldron.
Now it shot high in the air, lifted by some mighty roller. Now it
dropped down, down, down, until Roy thought it would surely go to the
bottom. Once away from the protection of the _Lycoming_, the life-boat
felt the full force of the wind. It seemed to Roy the blasts would jerk
him from his seat and throw him into the maelstrom. Now the boat bobbed
this way. Now she ducked the other way. A feather whirling in the
tempest could hardly have been more unstable.

In such a sea none but an expert oarsman could wield a great oar such
as Roy now grasped. Had he been the least bit awkward with it, he might
easily have caused disaster. Roy realized that at once and thanked
his lucky stars that he had learned to row well that first summer in
camp at Fort Brady. Now he gave way smoothly and with power. Through
the darkness he tried to see the stroke oar and pull in unison. The
search-light pointed its powerful ray over their heads, lighting the
way for the steersman. It was useless to call the strokes of the oars.
In the shrieking wind no earthly voice could have been heard. There was
nothing to do but sit tight and pull.

Slowly the boat forged through the seething sea. It neared the
_Empress_, which seemed to bulk as huge as a mountain. Painfully the
little craft fought her way to the leeward side of the _Empress_ and
crept as near as she dared. Lines were flung from the _Empress_. They
were bent to those the life-boat was towing. Slowly these were hauled
to the ship, and the crew began to pull on the heavy hawsers to which
the life-boat lines were attached. The _Lycoming’s_ boat worked its way
along the lee side of the _Empress_, toward the davits that had been
swung outboard to lift it. Suddenly there was a great outcry aboard
the _Empress_. The anchor chains had snapped. At once all hands were
called forward to pull on the hawsers. Unless they were got aboard the
_Empress_ was doomed.

Straightway the wind drove her directly toward the little life-boat.
With all their might the men in the boat pulled away from the ship,
which would have crushed them like an egg-shell.

In a moment they had passed from under her protecting side and found
themselves pitching wildly on the inky waves. To get back to the
_Lycoming_ was impossible. To try to gain the _Empress_ was worse than
useless. To stay where they were was folly. The only hope of safety lay
in scudding before the storm. Instantly the third officer’s decision
was taken.

“Give way,” he roared, and as the crew bent to their oars, he swept
the tiny boat around. In another moment the little craft was racing
before the tempest, tossing wildly, but thanks to the oil film, riding
buoyantly and safely. Rapidly the _Empress_ and the _Lycoming_ fell
astern. Soon they were lost to sight. Above the life-boat the night was
inky black. About her the waters heaved and roared. Ahead of her lay
the wild sea, with its awful waves and its fearful, crashing combers.




CHAPTER XVII LAND AHEAD!


On rushed the little craft. Aboard the _Lycoming_ the seas had seemed
terrible. To Roy, in an open boat, they were stupefying in their
awfulness. No power of imagination could conjure up anything so
terrific as this hellish welter of water. It hissed and seethed and
roared and tumbled. It boiled up in fury. It was paralyzing in its
awfulness. It benumbed mind and body. Terrified, aghast, Roy huddled
down in his seat. Then he thought of the captain. His courage came
back. The blood again coursed through his veins. He gripped his oar
and bent to his task with a will. He did not believe he would ever
reach the shore. But if he were to die, he meant to die like a man. He
thought of the wireless operator on the _Comal_ who had bidden him good
luck even as he was drifting to what seemed certain death. Roy took a
last look at the _Empress_. “Good luck!” he shouted, then bent to his
oar.

The wind snatched the words out of his mouth. The man beside him did
not know he had spoken. The clamor of the elements drowned all other
sounds. Conversation was impossible. The mate at the stern could not
make his orders heard. There was nothing to do but sit tight and row.
That helped to steady the boat.

On they went. Now they were down in the trough of a wave. Now they were
on a mountainous crest. Thanks to the oil slick, no water came aboard.
But the edge of the oil film was near at hand. Straight ahead of them
Roy knew the waves were breaking with awful violence. Soon they would
be among those unbridled crests. Let but one of them come toppling down
upon the little boat and all would be over. Roy gritted his teeth at
the thought. “At any rate I’ll die game,” he muttered.

The life-boat mounted upward. Up and up it climbed on the slope of a
huge comber. It reached the top.

“Lights ahead!” cried the mate, who was facing forward. “Lights ahead!”

A single oarsman caught the words. From man to man it was shouted the
length of the boat. “Lights ahead!” The life-boat topped the wave and
plunged forward into the trough. Again it climbed upward. The mate
strained his eyes through the blackness. This time he saw many lights
stretching for a long distance.

“Land ahead!” he roared. Again the cry was carried forward from man to
man, “Land ahead!”

Hope sprang up in Roy’s heart. If they could see lights from a little
boat, the lights must be near at hand. Poor Roy! He did not know the
lights were high on a bluff and could be seen for miles. “We’re going
to make it!” he cried to himself, and fresh courage came to him.

The little boat shot past the protecting oil slick. Roy knew it in a
second, even though he could see nothing in the darkness. At once the
waters became frenzied. The little craft no longer smoothly rode the
swells. She was tossed like a chip in a whirlpool. The waters boiled up
under her, seethed around her, and came together with terrific impact.
The waves broke with a surging roar past description. To make matters
worse, the wind shifted, coming directly off shore. Roy noted the fact
with joy. It might mean the salvation of the _Empress_. Spray filled
the air. It flew in blinding, drenching torrents before the blast.
It soaked the oarsmen. It began to fill their boat. The awful wind
chilled the rowers to the bone. Yet all the time they advanced. Despite
the wind, the waves and the power of their own efforts flung them
shoreward at an incredible pace. The lights were coming nearer.

Dawn was approaching, too. Low on the horizon the rowers saw the first
faint streaks of light. Their courage increased. They bent to their
oars with renewed strength. As the light grew, the man at the helm
began to pick out objects ahead of him. The distant land was faintly
silhouetted against the pale morning sky. Intently he watched, looking
for familiar landmarks. Suddenly he knew where he was. The little boat
was driving straight for Corpus Christi.

He began to hope that they might reach shore in safety. He knew the
harbor well. Mustang Island was dead ahead. Aransas Pass was only
slightly to starboard. If he could work the boat over sufficiently,
they might shoot through the pass into Corpus Christi Bay and safety.
Could he do it?

He leaned against his steering oar and skilfully pointed the
life-boat’s nose a bit to starboard. The wind was no longer dead ahead
and the craft was no longer running directly with the waves. She was
quartering, cutting through them at an angle. This was dangerous, but
necessary to ultimate safety. If she could advance a few hundred yards
to starboard the channel would be dead ahead and she could run to
safety straight before the waves.

She had almost gained her distance when a monster wave broke just
behind her. A thousand tons of water came crashing down on the rowers.
Boat and oarsmen disappeared from sight, and the wave rushed on
shoreward.

Down, down, down into the seething vortex went the crew. Roy thought he
would never come to the surface. He tried to fight his way upward but
the swirling water sucked him down. He felt as though his lungs would
burst. Just when he thought he could hold his breath no longer, his
head popped above the water. He gasped for air, then looked about him
for his companions.

The boat, overturned, floated near by. Oars were bobbing here and there
on the waves. One by one his companions came up. Roy counted heads. All
were there but the mate. Something bumped Roy violently from behind. He
turned around. The mate, unconscious, had just come to the surface. His
own oar had knocked him senseless as the boat capsized.

Roy grabbed the mate by the hair and called for help. Nobody heard him.
Everybody was swimming for the overturned boat. A long oar was floating
near Roy. He grabbed it, and shoving it ahead of him, fought his way
to a second oar, towing the mate behind him. The struggle, though
brief, was so violent that it almost exhausted him. He got an oar under
each of the mate’s arms. Then slowly treading water and holding fast to
the two oars himself, he tried to recover his strength.

Presently the mate regained consciousness. He grabbed the oars
convulsively. He did not know that Roy was behind him until he tried to
swim and his feet struck him. The mate looked around and saw Roy. He
comprehended the situation at a glance. Roy had saved his life. He also
saw that their best chance lay in getting to the overturned craft.

“To the boat!” he shouted, taking one oar and leaving the other for
Roy. Then he struck off toward the life-boat. The two fought their way
back to their comrades, all of whom had reached the boat.

They were trying to right it, but the task proved impossible. Evidently
there was considerable air under the boat, for her bottom was high
out of water and she was riding the waves buoyantly. One by one
they crawled up on the boat and lay flat on their bellies, clinging
desperately to the heaving craft. Again and again men slid back into
the sea. Their comrades pulled them up again. Once every soul was
washed overboard by a breaking wave but all got back.

The cold wind chilled them to the bone, benumbing them. In comparison,
the sea felt warm. Finally Roy was so cold he could endure it no
longer. He slid from the boat’s bottom and gripping her keel, clung
just astern. Only his head and arms were above water. Gradually he grew
warmer.

Dawn changed to the full light of day. As every wave lifted them up,
the shipwrecked mariners could plainly see the land before them. They
could even make out the terrific surges as the waves broke on the
shores of Mustang and Rockport Islands. They knew, unless the end
came sooner, that there was where the pinch would come--when they had
reached the long, sloping beach and were being pounded by the terrific
surf. For the sea was bearing them slowly toward land.

An hour passed. They were appreciably nearer land though still far from
shore. Another hour went by. Now they were near enough to shore to
distinguish small objects on land. The breakers were not far distant.
It was close to eight o’clock, though no one in the group knew what
the hour was, when the sea began suddenly to move shoreward in a
mysterious, irresistible fashion. As though power had been applied to
it, the overturned boat started toward the land. Roy tried to scramble
up on it. A small wave, traveling shoreward with terrific velocity,
banged Roy against the craft, then tore him loose from it, swept over
the boat, and sped shoreward. The men clung to the boat frantically.
Not one was washed off. The mate was still grasping an oar. He flung
it to Roy, who grabbed it and tried to swim back to the life-boat.
The current swept him away, but both Roy and his comrades were borne
rapidly and irresistibly forward, as wave after wave, each higher than
its predecessor, rolled in from the sea, carrying everything before
them.

Through the blinding spray and the heaving waters, Roy tried to see
where he was going. He could feel himself being carried forward at
great speed. He knew he must soon come to land. But the thought of the
breakers sickened him. The current had drifted him opposite Mustang
Island again. Straight in he drove, but the pounding breakers seemed
to diminish as Roy drew near them. Then they disappeared altogether.
In another minute Roy was floating over what, a short time before, had
been Mustang Island. For the first time he realized that he was in the
grasp of a tidal wave. Instantly he thought of Galveston and wondered
if Corpus Christi was to suffer as its sister city had done.

But he had small opportunity to think about anything save his own
safety. Before Roy knew it he was in the midst of a struggling herd of
cattle. Even above the roar of the storm he could hear their frenzied
bellowing as the sea swept over their grazing-grounds and carried them
into Corpus Christi Bay. More dangerous than the sea was the furious
struggling of these frantic animals. With all his might Roy strove to
get clear of them. Avoiding striking hoof and plunging horn, he swam to
one side of the herd, and the current soon swept him clear of them.

But in his flight he lost his oar. He had now only his own exertions to
sustain himself. And his violent efforts to get free of the cattle had
tired him utterly. He must find something to help float him and find it
soon. He began to look about him. The bay was full of wreckage. A dark
object rolling in the waves at a distance attracted Roy. It looked like
an overturned boat. Roy swam for it. As he approached, a wave partly
righted it. Roy saw before him a good-sized launch. It lifted still
farther out of water and he caught the name _Waldo_. Then the craft
rolled back until only one side was visible above the flood. But that
was enough to sustain Roy, and with a thankful heart he crawled up on
the stricken launch and lay down on it at full length.

The current bore him on and on and great waves continued to roll in
from the sea. The wind was blowing as violently as any wind Roy had
encountered in all the days of storm through which he had passed. But
within the landlocked bay the waves were pigmies compared to the giant
rollers in the Gulf. Furthermore, the inrushing tidal wave seemed to
beat down and flatten all opposing waves. Roy felt sure that he would
now reach the shore in safety.

Presently his strength came back to him. He sat up and looked about
him. Already the inrushing tide had carried him far up the bay. He
judged that this might be eight or ten miles wide. How long it was he
could not guess, though he was certain that its length must be at least
double its width. Far to the west he could dimly see there was a city.
There were high bluffs there and he felt sure that he saw buildings.
But the blinding spray made his vision uncertain.

Wreckage floated on all sides of him. Telephone-poles, uprooted
trees, fence-posts, logs, planks, roofs, doorsteps, porches, parts
of buildings, and a thousand other floating objects filled the bay.
The farther Roy traveled, the more numerous became these floating
objects. Soon Roy began to fear that he might be pounded to death by
the wreckage. It began to collect about his boat and to beat against
it. Suddenly a great log was catapulted, end on, straight at the
_Waldo_. With a crash that was audible above the storm it stove in one
entire side of the launch and the _Waldo_ disappeared amid the swirling
wreckage. But Roy had foreseen what would happen. Scrambling to his
feet, he leaped far to one side as the boat sank, and swimming under
water came up clear of the wreckage. A large tree was floating near by,
riding majestically through the waves. Roy swam to it, and, grasping
some roots, pulled himself up on the trunk. To his horror he found a
rattlesnake coiled up on the tree. For a moment Roy was on the point of
jumping back into the water. But the reptile showed no disposition to
molest him, and Roy stuck to the log. He kept one eye on the snake and
watched closely for a new support.

The current drove him on and on, though all the while it shunted him
toward the south shore. Now he could plainly see the city. It was
apparent the waves were carrying him straight for it. As he drew near
he saw that the water had already spread far up in the town. Waves
were surging about all the houses in the lower part of the city. From
these houses persons were wading toward the higher ground far inland.
It was an awful sight. Block after block of dwellings stood in the
flood, and Roy could see that every minute the waters were rising
higher. Everywhere little groups of refugees were struggling through
the swirling waves, slipping, stumbling, clinging desperately to one
another as they raced with death through the rising waters. With
incredible swiftness the flood deepened around the doomed dwellings.

People appeared at second-story windows. Terrified men, women, and
children who had lingered too long, leaned from these windows with
blanched faces, looking for means of rescue. The floating wreckage, now
blown together in solid masses, drove into the city and began to batter
the inundated dwellings. Roy shuddered. He knew what it meant.

Even as he looked a dwelling collapsed, spreading apart like a house of
cards and falling into the flood. “Great God!” cried Roy, shuddering
with horror. There had been faces at the second-story window. Another
house went down. A third split in half, like a beef riven along the
chine, and the two halves leaned away from each other and toppled over
into the flood. By the height of the water on the buildings Roy judged
that the waves must be ten feet deep. House after house went down.
As each collapsed, the wreckage added volume to the mass of floating
débris that was battering the city to pieces. Now dwellings went down
by tens, now by scores. They disappeared faster than Roy could count.
The noise of the tempest and the battering of house against house was
indescribable.

Everywhere men, women, and children were leaping from their homes into
the flood. Some disappeared forever. Some were able to crawl up on
floating timbers. Some were crushed beyond recognition. As the houses
fell apart, the terrible wind picked up boards and planks and hurled
them hither and thither. The air was filled with flying timbers. A
great board came sailing directly toward Roy. It would have killed
him had it touched him. He fell flat on the tree trunk and the board
whizzed over his shoulder.

But the movement brought Roy within a few inches of the snake.
Terrified, he leaped to his feet again and began to look for another
refuge. The side of a house floated by. It was within twenty feet.
Gathering himself for the effort, Roy leaped on a large timber, then to
a telegraph-pole, and from that to the side of the house. He reached
it safely. It was still firm and it rode high out of water. Evidently
there were big timbers beneath it, buoying it up. Roy found that he
could walk around on it safely.

The sight of so many persons distressed and dying was sickening. Roy’s
heart cried out to rescue them but he was helpless. His raft was wedged
in a mass of débris acres in extent, that grew as every collapsing
house was added to it, that became every moment more compact, and that
was flung forward by the irresistible current, mowing down houses as a
scythe topples over grain. He dared not try to cross the floating mass.
Inevitably he would have sunk through it. Once beneath the mass death
would have been certain. All he could do was to stick to his raft and
wait for the moment for escape.

On and on drove the mass. Where a few minutes previously houses had
stood by hundreds, there were now only acres and acres of tossing
débris. On every side Roy saw refugees, riding like himself on the
wreckage or clinging to floating logs or planks.

Anxiously Roy peered through the spray and rain, sheltering his eyes
with his hands, and trying to discover where he was going. Behind him
were the raging waters of the bay. Far to the right, beyond the houses
among which Roy’s raft had drifted, Roy could see more open water.
Ahead another stretch of writhing water appeared. Roy judged that the
dwellings around him must be on a narrow point of land. If he were
washed across that point, a great, open stretch of water would lie
before him again. Only to the left could he see dry ground. In that
direction were high bluffs. He bent all his efforts toward gaining
these heights.

His raft, heavier than most pieces of wreckage, drove through the mass
irresistibly under the pressure of the waves. Roy saw that it would
surely batter its way across North Beach, and be driven into the water
of Nueces Bay, which he had glimpsed beyond. If that happened he would
again be helplessly exposed to the fury of the tempest. A long pole
came driving by and fell into the water beside Roy’s raft. Roy leaned
far over the edge and grasped it. He found that he could touch bottom
with it. He tried to work his raft toward the high ground. It was so
bulky he could do nothing with it.

Two short telephone-poles, lashed together, were floating near by.
Roy leaped on them and found that they would carry him safely. With
his pole he was able to shove them through the water and thrust aside
obstructing pieces of wreckage. He worked his way clear of the mass and
got into what had been a street running toward the bluffs. Now it was
like a canal in Venice. The houses on either side stood deep in water.
None had yet collapsed and the great mass of wreckage had largely been
held back by the rows of houses still standing on the seaward side. Up
this watery avenue Roy forced his craft as best he could. The turbulent
waves tossed him about, the current continually bore him against the
houses, and the wreckage impeded him. By the greatest exertion Roy
overcame all obstacles and drove his little raft nearer and nearer his
haven.

As he drew closer to the bluffs, the water became shallower. Presently
it was no more than waist-deep. All about him people were dropping from
their homes into the flood. A woman with a little child appeared at a
window directly above Roy’s raft and called for help.

“Drop her,” shouted Roy.

The woman lifted the child through the window and dropped her. Roy
caught the sobbing child and placed her on the raft at his feet. The
woman crawled from the window and fell into Roy’s arms. He was knocked
down, but he managed to hold the woman on the raft. She picked up her
child. Roy looked for his pole. It had been washed away. He leaped into
the water, which was no more than waist-deep, and tried to drag the
raft toward shore. The waves battered and beat him. The raft was tossed
about. But Roy clung to it and gradually dragged it into shallower
water. Finally he put the baby on his shoulder, and leading the woman
by the hand, waded to safety.

All about them scores of wet and terrified persons were similarly
seeking safety. “Go to the court-house,” he heard some one say. He
inquired the direction and made his way thither with the woman and the
child. The streets in the business section were already under water.
The court-house was waist-deep, but they gained it in safety. “Thank
God!” exclaimed Roy.

In the building were scores and scores of terrified refugees, huddling
together in white-faced fear. Nobody knew what might happen. For a
moment Roy did not know what to do. He looked with a sick heart at
the sad company about him. He could do nothing to help them. Then he
thought of the white faces he had seen in the doomed houses past which
he had floated. He knew what his duty was. He bent and kissed the child
he had rescued. “Good luck!” he said to her, and turning away from this
haven of safety, went out again into the flood.




CHAPTER XVIII BACK INTO THE STORM


The rising waters forced him again to seek safety. He struggled through
them and reached dry land. He was almost exhausted. He had had no food
since supper time the night before. For hours he had been exposed
to wind and water. He had almost reached the limit of endurance. He
staggered on, not knowing what to do or where to go. A boy scout came
hurrying by.

“Where could I get a bite to eat?” asked Roy. “I’m nearly dead.”

“Go to the Red Cross headquarters in the First Presbyterian Church,”
replied the scout, and directed Roy how to find the church.

Roy staggered on. He was so nearly exhausted that he could hardly make
his way up to the church. Other refugees, like himself, were heading
for the place. It was a sorry procession. At length the church was
reached. There was food in abundance and coffee steaming hot. Roy
ate as though famished. He drank cup after cup of coffee. Never had
he tasted anything so good. The coffee warmed and stimulated him. His
strength returned to him as he rested and ate. He watched the Red
Cross women as they ministered to other refugees. He admired the cool,
skilled way they did their work, the quiet manner in which they cared
for others when perhaps their own homes were imperiled. The thought was
like a galvanic shock to Roy. This was no place for him, this warm and
comfortable church. He had a duty to perform, too. His duty was out
there in the storm. And again he thought of those white faces at the
windows.

Back into the storm he plunged, seeking where he might be most helpful.
In no time he was at the water’s edge again. Scores of persons were
still marooned in their houses. They must be gotten out or they would
be drowned. The water was almost at its highest and the storm was
licking up dwelling after dwelling. Roy looked about him. Four white
faces were peering from a near-by house. Roy waded toward it. The water
crept up around him but he gained the building. The sea had broken open
a door. Roy entered, found the stairway, and went up to the terrified
inmates. They were a mother and three little girls.

“Come quick,” he said, “or it will be too late.”

The children held back, afraid to step into the water. “Get on my
back,” said Roy, picking up the largest child.

He went down the stairs and struggled to land. The water was waist-deep
and running like a mill-race.

“Wait here until I bring the others,” said Roy as he placed the child
in a sheltered doorway.

Again he waded through the flood. The water nearly swept him off his
feet. He got another child on his back.

“Come,” he said to the woman. “If you do not leave at once you can
never get ashore. I will come back for the baby.”

The woman hesitated. “You are risking everything,” said Roy. “We’ll all
be drowned if you do not come at once.”

The woman began to sob hysterically. She refused to move. Roy was sadly
perplexed. Something _must_ be done at once. But how? Into Roy’s mind
flashed the thought of his commander. He knew what Captain Lansford
would do. He would compel obedience. Roy ceased to argue with the woman.

“Come with me,” he shouted harshly. He seized the woman by the shoulder
and roughly forced her down the stairs. Then he seized her hand. “Come
on,” he said roughly and dragged her into the flood.

Desperately he fought to get her to land. The child on his back
weighted him down. The current swirled about him. He could hardly keep
his feet. He struggled on, dragging, pushing, pulling the woman toward
shore. A plank washed near him. He grabbed it and shoved it to his
companion. The plank steadied her and she made better progress. They
gained the shallower water and got beyond the reach of the waves.

“Go to that doorway and wait for me,” said Roy, pointing out the refuge
of the child he had already taken ashore. He handed the child on his
back to its mother. Then he turned back. This time he had to swim.
The waters had risen so high he could no longer wade. He reached the
house and found the baby safe on the upper floor. At first he did
not know how to get her ashore. She was too little to cling to his
shoulders. Something had to be done quick. He snatched a sheet from
the bed, folded it, and tied the baby on his back. Then he went down
into the flood, and struggling desperately, got back to land. He took
the baby in his arms and leading the others, made his way again up to
the Red Cross headquarters. When they got there, night was not far
distant. The crest of the flood had been reached. The wind still blew
at hurricane force. Roy delivered his charges to a Red Cross nurse and
was about to turn away, but the woman he had rescued caught him by the
arm.

“How can I ever thank you?” she cried. “If you had not compelled me to
go we should all have drowned.”

Roy did not know what to say. He suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m glad
you’re all safe,” he muttered and turned away.

But he did not go back into the storm. Suddenly a great weakness
possessed him. His legs refused to hold him up. He was quivering
all over. He believed he was about to be sick. He sought out a warm
corner and sat down. But he was not sick. It was only outraged nature
taking her toll. Roy was utterly exhausted. The coffee he had drunk
had given him a false strength. Now that the crisis was over he was
suddenly weak and tired--so tired. As he sat in the corner, he thought
over the events of the past week. Always his thoughts came back to
his captain, that great, rough, rude commander. Real kindness, Roy
understood for the first time, does not always consist in soft words or
an easy manner. He realized that now from his own experience. He had
been kind to the limit of kindness to the woman he had rescued. But
he had treated her with violent roughness. He saw his commander in a
new light. Pondering over the matter, he fell asleep. And for hours,
huddled in his corner, he was like one dead.

Morning came. Roy awoke. He was entirely refreshed. He jumped to his
feet, confused at first. He did not know where he was. Then the whole
terrible situation came to him. He supposed his companions were dead.
He tried to shut the memory of his terrible experience out of his mind
but could not. The suffering about him weighed him down, sickened him.
He could stand danger better than distress. He went outside and looked
about.

The sight that greeted him was appalling. The North Beach district,
where he had so lately battled with death between the houses, was a
surging sea. Three great structures still stood with the waves beating
about them. A passer-by told him they were a private residence, the old
North Beach Hotel, and the Spohn Sanitarium. Twenty-four hours earlier
fifteen hundred houses had stood where now Roy saw only tossing waves.
He turned from the sight in horror. The three buildings that remained
on North Beach were terribly battered. Porticoes, doors, shutters,
chimneys, and other parts had been wrenched away by wave and wind.
Whole wings had been torn from the sanitarium. As Roy looked at it, he
saw with horror that there were people still in it--doubtless sick and
helpless.

Even as he looked Roy saw a man wading out toward the hospital. He
watched, fascinated. Now swimming, now wading, the man fought his way
to the battered building. A white-robed nurse appeared in a doorway.
Presently the man faced about and fought his way back to land.

Roy turned back into the church. “Who is in charge here?” he asked one
of the Red Cross workers.

“Miss Mildred Seaton,” was the reply. “She is over there, talking to
that messenger from Mayor Boone’s office.”

Roy made his way toward the two. “Miss Seaton,” he said, when she had
finished her talk with the mayor’s messenger, “I want to know what I
can do to help.”

“What is your name? What can you do? We need workers of all sorts.”

“I am Roy Mercer,” began Roy, “wireless man on the steamship
_Lycoming_----”

His companion cut him short. “What we need more than anything else,”
she said, “is help. All the wires are down and we can get no word out.
Can you send a message?”

“Is there a wireless station here?” asked Roy.

“No.”

“Do you know of any amateur operators? I might be able to use their
equipment.”

“I don’t know of any. Go to the mayor.”

She called to the messenger, who was just leaving the room. “This is
Mr. Mercer,” she said. “Will you please take him directly to Mayor
Boone. He is a wireless operator. Perhaps he can get help for us.”

The messenger took Roy directly to the mayor, and introduced him.

“I suppose there are some amateur operators in Corpus Christi,” said
the mayor, “but I do not know of any. However, there is a shop where
all sorts of electrical equipment are for sale. Maybe you could find
what you need there.” He told Roy what he should say if he got into
communication with anybody.

Then he turned to his messenger. “Go with this gentleman,” he said.
“Spare no effort to get what he needs. Lack of communication is our
worst trouble now.”

They found the owner of the shop. He had the necessary equipment if it
could be gotten, but his store was under three feet of water.

“We’ll have to wade,” he said, “but we’ll take a look.”

They reached the store and crawled in through a broken show-window.
They had no difficulty to find wire, although it was on the floor. Only
after a long search under the muddy waters did they secure a condenser.
Neither wire nor condenser was any the worse for the wetting. From
drawers and shelves, some awash and some high and dry, they took one
article after another--receivers, a tuning coil, insulators, some large
batteries. But they could find no spark-gap.

“Have you a repair-shop?” asked Roy. “And are there tools and materials
in it?”

“Yes. It’s right back of the shop, and it is flooded, too.”

“Never mind that,” said Roy. “I’m used to water by this time.”

They waded into the shop. The water was about two inches below the
level of the workbench.

“Good!” said Roy. “This will do fine!”

Skilfully he cut a block for the base, sawed some pieces for posts, and
drilled them and fastened them upright at the proper distances from one
another. He got a short, slender metal rod, cut it in half, ground the
ends into sharp points and thrust them into his uprights. It was a very
crude affair, but when properly wired up would work. The difficulty
now was to get a key. None was to be found. They gathered up all the
tools, wires and other things they would need, and left the shop. At
the railway station the mayor’s messenger secured a telegraph-key. Roy
said that he could alter it a trifle so that it would answer. Then,
soaked but satisfied, they carried their materials to the very highest
part of the city.

There Roy was made welcome in a private residence. Rapidly he fashioned
an aerial. With the help of the owner of the house he suspended this
aerial between a high tree near by and a chimney of the residence.
He brought his lead-in wire through a window, rapidly wired up his
instruments, and coupled on his batteries. As he pressed his key, a fat
spark leaped between the points of his spark-gap. Skilfully he adjusted
these and turned to his host.

“If only I had a wireless signal book,” he sighed. “It may be hard to
raise anybody, for I don’t know a single local call. Probably I’ll
have to send out an SOS. What is the nearest place where they would be
likely to have a Marconi station?”

“Probably San Antonio.”

“How far is that in a straight line?”

“I don’t know exactly. Perhaps a hundred and twenty-five
miles--possibly a hundred and thirty.”

Roy looked at his batteries dubiously. “I’ll make the effort anyway,”
he said. “Maybe they’ll carry that distance.”

“I hope you can get them,” said Roy’s host anxiously. “We need help
badly. We especially need soldiers. Looting has begun.”

“Soldiers!” cried Roy. “Why didn’t I think of them before? There’s an
army post at Brownsville. How far is that?”

“About the same distance as San Antonio.”

“Thank heaven I know their call signal,” cried Roy.

He pressed his finger to his key. Blue sparks leaped across his
spark-gap. “WUZ--WUZ--WUZ,” he flashed.

Then he sat breathless and listened. Would his battery carry far
enough? There was no answering signal.

“WUZ--WUZ--WUZ,” flashed out Roy. Then once more he sat tense,
listening.

Something crackled in his ear. “Who is calling WUZ?”

“Corpus Christi,” flashed back Roy. “City terribly damaged by tidal
wave. Scores drowned. Hundreds of houses washed away. Property loss
millions. Need food, medicines, workers, soldiers. Looting has begun.
For God’s sake rush help. Gordon Boone, Mayor.”

“Who is this talking?” came the reply. “Never heard of a wireless
station at Corpus Christi.”

“This is Roy Mercer, shipwrecked wireless man, talking on emergency
outfit for city authorities. Call ABC.”

So Roy sent abroad the news of the city’s plight, even as Paul Revere
carried to every Middlesex village and farm the news of Lexington’s
peril. Next morning soldiers marched into the city. Martial law was
declared. Sentries were posted. Corpus Christi was safe. Other helpers
rushed to the stricken community. A Red Cross relief train sped to the
rescue. The Salvation Army sent workers. Physicians and nurses came.
Food and supplies poured in. The stunned city pulled itself together.
Workers were organized to search out and care for the dead, to clear
the streets, to look after the homeless, to feed the hungry. Emergency
tent camps arose. Canteens were opened. Boy scouts collected clothes,
carried messages, and were the legs of the rescue work. And until
telephonic communication was restored, Roy sat at his instrument hour
after hour, sending and receiving messages for the stricken city.

The air and the sea brought help. An army aviator dropped thirty
pounds of sorely needed yeast into the city. The flood had spoiled
all existing stocks. As soon as the sea subsided, boats rushed to
Corpus Christi, bearing gifts. The sea-going tug _Rotarian_ came from
Galveston, carrying money, supplies, and workers.

When Roy learned of the _Rotarian’s_ arrival he sought her out and went
aboard. The captain met him as he came up the gangplank.

“Can you tell me anything about the _Lycoming_ or the _Empress_?”
demanded Roy.

“Both safe in Galveston,” said the tug’s skipper. “They are pretty
badly battered up, but still sound. They had an awful fight to make
it. The _Empress_ broke her rudder and the _Lycoming_ took her in
tow. Nobody but John Lansford could have done it. I tell you he’s
a wonder--heart like a woman’s--courage like a grizzly--rough as
barnacles on a ship’s bottom. The worst storm that ever blew--and I
guess this was it--couldn’t make him desert a ship in trouble. He was
darn near to port, he was, and didn’t he turn back into the hurricane
and take the _Empress_ in tow. Saved her, too. Put an oil slick down,
got lines aboard of her, and had her turn her engines just enough to
give her headway. His lines would have parted in a minute if he’d had
to pull her whole weight. Oh! He’s a wonder all right. It was a great
rescue--great!”

“Was--was anybody lost?” asked Roy, hesitating.

“Small boat’s crew, including the third mate and the wireless man.”

“And nothing has been heard from them?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I am the wireless man,” said Roy quietly.

“The deuce you are!” exclaimed the _Rotarian’s_ captain. “The deuce you
are! Put her there,” and he shook Roy’s hand warmly for a full minute.
“I’m mighty glad you pulled through. They say you did great work.”

Roy’s heart leaped with joy. At last recognition had come to him. His
captain had changed his mind about him. But to the tug’s captain he
said simply, “I’m glad to hear about the two steamers. I wish we could
get as good news of the third mate and the others in the life-boat.”

“Aren’t they here with you?”

Roy told him how they had been lost. Then he added, “Will you take me
back to Galveston with you?”

“Surest thing you know,” exclaimed the captain.

So it happened that when the _Rotarian_, a few days later, tied up
at her pier in Galveston, Roy Mercer was the first person ashore. A
single glance told him that Galveston was unharmed. The captain had
already told him, however, how the sea-wall had saved the city. Roy
raced down the pier and up the gangplank to the _Lycoming_. The first
person he met was the third mate. Roy stopped dead in astonishment,
then sprang forward and grasped the mate’s hand.

“How did you get here?” he cried in astonishment.

The mate told him that after he, Roy, was washed away from the others
on the overturned boat, the life-boat was driven straight toward the
highest point on Mustang Island. A few sand-dunes remained above the
flood, and on these the crew found refuge. Two of the sailors died
from exposure, for they had to stay on their tiny refuge, exposed
to wind and rain, for fully forty-eight hours. Then they got across
Aransas Pass, found food and shelter, and later made their way along
the railroad to San Patricio, where they got a train back to Galveston.
Barring the sailors who died, all were back on the _Lycoming_ safe and
sound.

Roy pressed on to the captain’s quarters. He was very eager to see him.
He felt sure that this time a warm welcome awaited him. He rapped on
the captain’s door.

“Come in,” said a rough voice.

Roy entered and stood before his commander. “I report for duty again,
sir,” he said.

The captain took his outstretched hand. “I’m glad you escaped,” he
said, “but you had no business in that small boat. Your post of duty
was in the wireless house. You left me in great difficulties. There was
no way to communicate quickly with the _Empress_. But I’m very glad you
escaped.”




CHAPTER XIX VICTORY


Poor Roy! He had come back expecting a warm welcome from the captain
and had been greeted with a reprimand. He backed out of the captain’s
room, and hot tears welled to his eyes despite his effort to suppress
them. He believed that he had come to understand his captain. He
believed that his roughness was but a mask for a great heart. But it
was evident he was wrong. The captain had no heart. The captain cared
nothing for him. The captain still refused to change his mind about
wireless. And that meant that when the ship got back to New York Roy
would pack his bag and say farewell to her forever. He had done his
best to win recognition and failed. His errors were those of ignorance
and inexperience, not wilful wrongs. He had tried so hard to help save
the _Empress_. Now he was reprimanded for what he had done.

Suddenly a new thought came into Roy’s mind. “He said that I left him
in difficulties. He said that I left him in difficulties,” repeated
Roy to himself. “That means that I was useful to him and that he missed
my help. I see that it was wrong to leave my post. Others could row the
boat, but no one else could send wireless messages. But since the two
ships are safe, I’m glad I went. I’m glad something made the old dragon
realize that wireless is worth something.”

The purser and the first mate greeted Roy so warmly that it made him
forget his disappointment at the captain’s cold reception. In Mr.
Robbins and Mr. Young, at least, he had two firm friends. So long as he
lived, he would never forget them.

He went to his room and took off his torn and stained uniform. “I ought
to get another,” he muttered, “but I won’t. After I reach New York I’ll
probably never need a uniform.”

He dressed himself in the old suit he had worn the day he came to New
York. That was only three months previously, but Roy had seen so much
and gone through so much that it seemed like ages. What Roy did not
appreciate was how he had grown during those three months--not in body,
but in mind and character. The stern discipline of his captain had
held him so rigidly to his duty that it had become second nature to do
his duty. He had developed those very qualities that his captain most
desired in his subordinates, but apparently could not see in Roy.

After a while Roy went down on the lower deck, where he heard the sound
of hammers and saws. Rails had been carried away, bulwarks smashed,
and many minor injuries done to the ship. But these could be readily
repaired and carpenters were working busily to remedy the trouble.
Meantime, the cargo was shooting into the hold as fast as ever. When he
had fully inspected the _Lycoming_, Roy went over to the _Empress_. She
was battered pretty badly. Roy went aboard and made the acquaintance
of Stimson, the wireless man. The latter greeted him with the utmost
cordiality and introduced him to the ship’s officers, from the captain
down. All expressed their gratitude to Roy for the part he had had in
their rescue. So Roy went back to the _Lycoming_ much happier in mind
than he had been when he left her.

Twenty-four hours later the _Lycoming_ steamed out of the harbor. Five
days later still she lay at her dock in New York. It was Roy’s last day
aboard of her, he supposed, and he was depressed and sick at heart. He
had become fond of the ship and her crew. He had even come to love his
commander, though not in the way he loved the purser. Just now he felt
very hard toward Captain Lansford. He expected the new wireless man
would come aboard in a few hours. Before he came, Roy wished to say
good-bye to his friends, so that he could leave promptly. He started
for the purser’s office. On the way, he passed a young man who inquired
for the captain. Roy directed him to the captain’s quarters, then
turned away. He heard the door open and the man say, “Captain Lansford,
I’m the new wireless man. The Marconi people instructed me to report to
you for duty.”

“New wireless man!” Roy heard the captain roar, and though he did not
mean to eavesdrop, he stood as though rooted to the deck. “New wireless
man!” cried the captain. “What do I want of a new wireless man? I’ve
got the best wireless man afloat. Go back and tell ’em so.”

“But I understood that you wanted to make a change--that your present
operator is too young.”

“You did, eh? Well, he is a bit young, but I can trust him absolutely.
And he’s got more brains than your whole outfit put together. It’ll be
a cold day when I go to sea without him. Good-day, sir.”

The surprised Marconi man turned about and made for the pier. Roy fled
to the wireless house. His heart was beating wildly. His whole soul
was singing. He had made good. The captain wanted him to stay. The
captain did like him, despite his rough manner. His jubilation was so
great he could hardly sit still.

Presently his brow puckered. How was he to get the captain to tell him
that he was to stay? An idea came to Roy. He jumped to his feet and ran
down to the captain’s cabin.

“Come in,” said a gruff voice, in answer to his knock.

“I’ve come to say good-bye, sir,” said Roy. “You know my three months
are up. I am sorry, sir, for I should like to stay on the _Lycoming_.
Good-bye, sir.”

The captain jumped to his feet. “Who told you to leave the ship?” he
roared.

“No one now, sir, but when I came aboard you said I was to stay three
months. The time is up. I supposed you wanted me to leave.”

“I don’t. That is, if I’ve got to have a wireless man aboard you might
as well stay. I don’t want to have to break another one in. You are not
relieved from duty. Go to your quarters, sir.”

Roy went back to the wireless house. The captain’s gruff words could
not still the song that his heart was singing. He had won. He had made
good. His captain liked him, perhaps loved him--in his strange way. He
thanked his lucky stars that he had been an eavesdropper. Now he knew
the truth about the captain. The skipper of the _Rotarian_ had told the
truth. The rough manner was only a mask to cover a great heart. All
Roy’s pent-up affection went out to this commander. He understood him
now. Like the first mate and the purser, he felt a genuine affection
for his captain. It had taken a long time to see beneath the surface,
but nothing could now blind his eyes. He understood his commander. And,
best of all, he had made good.

“Well,” he sighed joyfully, “I guess I’ll need a new uniform after all.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.







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